"Oh dear! Don't come near me!" she said, with a little affected laugh—"I simply HATE poetry! I'm so sorry you write it! I can't think why you do. Do you like it?—or are you doing it for somebody because you must?"
Julian smiled, and ran his fingers through his hair, sticking it up rather on end, much to Mrs. Courtenay's abhorrence.
"I like it more than anything else in the world!" he said. "I'm doing it quite for myself, and for nobody else."
"Really!"—and Mrs. Courtenay gave him a glance of displeased surprise—"How dreadful!" Here she turned to Maryllia. "Au revoir, my dear, for the present! As you won't allow any Bridge, I'm going to sleep. Then I shall do massage for an hour. May I have tea in my own room?"
"Certainly!" said Maryllia.
"Thanks!" She glided out, with a frou-frou of her silken skirts and a trail of perfume floating after her.
The three she left behind her exchanged amused glances.
"Wonderful woman!" said Adderley,—"And, no doubt, a perfectly happy one!"
"Why of course! I don't suppose she has ever shed a tear, lest it should make a wrinkle!" And Cicely, as she made these remarks, patted her own thin, sallow cheeks consolingly. "Look at my poor face and hers! Mine is all lined and puckered with tears and sad thoughts—SHE hasn't a wrinkle! And I'm fourteen, and she's forty! Oh dear! Why did I cry so much over all the sorrow and beauty of life when I was young!"
"Ah—and why didn't you have a pianista-pianola!" said Adderley. They all laughed,—and then at Maryllia's suggestion, joined the rest of the guests in the garden.