“Quella Signora bella ed alta!”
The beautiful and tall lady followed close upon her, Elinor Diederich, daughter of those gods of our youth, William and Louisa Hunt. Despair, dismay, doubt vanished before her; she blew them all away, as the fresh west wind blows vapors and fog and leaves the sun bright in the sky; that is what it is to inherit the temperament of genius.
“Of course,” said Elinor, picking up one of the badly directed envelopes, “I knew this would happen. That’s the reason I came. I have had an experience of that poor thing’s work myself. I brought my pen; my handwriting’s the best thing about me.” She was hard at it, directing invitations in a handsome hand, as if that had been her calling.
At ten o’clock the bell rang again; there was a parley in the anticamera; a faint odor of cigarette smoke floated into the room.
“It’s Emilio,” J. exclaimed. “Show the Signorino in!”
Emilio Benlieuri, the Spanish sculptor, one of our familiars, appeared in the doorway, a tall lean melancholy man with the burning eyes and the grave bearing of the Valencian Don.
He bowed low to the whole company. “I kiss your feet, Senora,” he began in Castilian.
“I kiss your hand, Caballero,” I responded.
“It is getting late,” whispered Elinor, “really, this isn’t the time for compliments. Make him put on the stamps—they’ll taste good to a hungry man!”
The Valencian, who speaks no English, understood the large gesture with which Elinor invited him to join the circle, and drew up a chair to the round table.