He drew back the portière. Valentine stood leaning on the piano, his face calm and peaceful, his unseeing eyes in their glasses turned toward Vivienne, who sat with downcast eyelids playing for him.
At the close of the song Armour entered the room. “Is it you, old man?” asked the singer. “Your pretty bird lured me here. Don’t be jealous of me,” he continued childishly, and feeling his way toward the place where Armour stood with features painfully composed. “I’m tired of women—except as sisters,” he added with an apologetic gesture in Vivienne’s direction.
“Let there be no talk of jealousy,” said Armour, laying his hand affectionately on Valentine’s shoulder. “You and Vivienne will henceforth be brother and sister.”
CHAPTER XXXVII
ADIEU TO FRISPI
Zilla Camperdown was strutting up and down Hollis Street after the fashion of a small peacock airing itself. Back and forth she went, now in front of the shops, now passing hotels where gentlemen smoking and lounging stared curiously at the well-plumaged little creature in her white and black garments.
She was doing wrong to be parading the streets alone, that she very well knew, but she was enjoying herself so hugely that she made no haste to go home, and continued to complacently spread the tail of her little white dress while sunning herself in the glances of admiration bestowed upon her dark, piquante face.
Her only fear was that her adopted brother might suddenly come upon her. If he did she knew that she would receive a sharp scolding and would probably be sent to bed, but willing to snatch the present moment she did not allow this to interfere with her enjoyment. A strict rule with regard to her was that she must never set foot in the street alone. Her idle, dissolute father still haunted the streets of Halifax, and although he was too wise to attempt any interference with her, knowing that he might stop the supplies of food and clothing that he received from Camperdown, he often lurked about waiting for a chance to hold some conversation with her. Hence the order that she should always be accompanied during her walks abroad.
The child’s punishment came swiftly upon her. Sauntering up the hill from Water Street with his monkey on his shoulder and a troop of children at his heels, Gilberto Frispi suddenly appeared and came face to face with his daughter.
“Ah, little bird,” he ejaculated in Italian patois, while the monkey screamed and chattered in delight and clutched its tiny hands toward Zilla’s lace hat; “is it thou at last? I have longed to see thee, but thou art not allowed to fly far from thy nest.”
Scarcely knowing what she did the girl turned and walked back toward the hotels. Her mortification was intense, and if a glance could have killed the smiling Frispi he would have fallen dead by the side of the daughter whom he presumed to address. She was exasperated too, almost beyond endurance, at the children who were hooting and shrieking with delight at the acrobatic feats of the monkey on Frispi’s shoulder.