Hippolyte’s Parlor flaunted on Fifth Avenue. It had a magnificent plate glass show window, fitted with Circassian walnut, in which was one red feather fan on a cushion of Nile green velvet, one jeweled comb, and a Pierrot costumed in black silk with a large white ruff, his face wonderful in its languid perversity. Up the side street there was a private door which opened halfway to let in ladies heavily veiled. Julie’s ambition was to see what was behind that fascinating door; today it is no longer a mystery. In the Middle Ages, Hippolyte would have been a miracle man summoned to a fair Venetian to deepen the red of her hair, the rose in her cheeks, the marvel of her eyes—selling for a purse of gold, charms to rob a rival of a coveted lover. Times have not changed, nor people; only appearances.
Martin took Julie into the shop one day and introduced her to Hippolyte, who pronounced her “ravissante”; thereupon Martin bought a costly box of perfume. Julie was afraid to take it home.
“I’ll settle that,” laughed Martin, and poured it over her, then they ran around the reservoir to get rid of the odor. Mrs. Gonzola noticed it, but said nothing.
Julie was standing at the window waiting for her mother. Her gloved hands impatiently agitating the curtains.
“Mother, the car is here. I shall be late for my music lesson.”
The voice answering from upstairs was nervous, trembling. “It’s impossible for me to go with you today; I’m not well.”
A flash illumined Julie’s face, but her voice was under perfect control. “I’m sorry.”
From the upper window, her mother watched her, music-roll in hand, stepping into the car. Mrs. Gonzola realized more and more acutely that her lovely child was developing into a beautiful woman; there was no feeling of joyful pride. Horrible, agonizing fear stopped the current of her blood.
Julie, alone in the car, drew a long breath. The pink of her lips turned red, the color slowly overflowing into her cheeks. She pulled the cord, asked the chauffeur in her soft, sensuous voice to stop at the nearest drug store; there she telephoned, then drove to the house of her professor. She was a gifted pianiste; she played with a sure, velvety touch, surmounting with ease all technical difficulties. The professor went into ecstasies about the beautiful child-woman with “Eternal Love in her fingers.”
The car turned into the Park. Martin was walking up and down by the little lake. He hated to wait. She never kept an appointment; if she didn’t come today he was through. His heart leaped when he saw her. The girl had a terrible power over him. She said smilingly: