She interrupted him gaily. "Oh, no; you are doomed. I shall introduce you to the most portentous faddists; you shall suffer. That, sir, may be your punishment for surprising me so!" She glided away, and returned with Mrs. Ware.
Never, thought Lancaster, had he seen Dorothy so gay, so cheerful, so roguish. Whence came that playful mood of hers; that mocking, joyous laughter? Talking to this and that person, Lancaster kept his watch upon Miss Ware. He saw her go out of the room, laughing and chattering, and the moment she reached the conservatory, put her hands up to her forehead and press them swiftly over her eyes. The smile went from her lips; her whole form testified to a sudden relaxation of an artificial tension.
A mask, Lancaster told himself, a mask for her feelings. She was agitated, but she determined to hide all that under a cloak of gayety. He understood. Had he not himself tested the expungent qualities of laughter?
As of old, the touch of her hand, the sound of her voice had thrilled him with a sense of wonderful gladness. At sight, at sound of her all the good in him seemed to become vibrant; she was still the star, far above him, that he longed for. The comforts of his cold philosophies, the promises of the epicureanisms he had delved in so deeply—all faded into ashes at approach of this girl.
"We are really very fortunate," a voice behind him aroused him from his rêverie, "in having such a distinguished guest with us tonight." It was Stanley, who stood with his hand on Lancaster's shoulder. "Surprised to see me here, are you? Well, to tell the truth, it's only of late that I've gone into these rare regions. I find that it conserves one's pessimism to enjoy the company of one's fellow-creatures. Will you excuse me, I see that man Wreath coming over here. I really can't stand him. He always remarks to me, sorrowfully, 'Ah, Mr. Stanley, I'm very much afraid you're not in earnest!' Why, the man himself's an eternal warning against being in earnest. There's nothing that spoils the look of a person's mouth so much as earnestness."
In truth, at that moment, just after Stanley had deftly slipped away, Mr. Wreath had solemnly greeted the artist. "You have shown great talent, Mr. Lancaster, great talent. But—" and he beamed reproach upon the other, "why don't you dig deeper?"
Lancaster felt as if he could have sworn at the man's presuming egoism. But he merely laughed, and said, "Ah, you forget what a fellow-artist of mine once said, apropos of cleanliness. 'Wash,' he said, 'no, we don't wash; we merely scratch and rub, scratch and rub.' I choose, in like manner, only to scratch. If I can scratch an effective creation, why should I dig?"
Wreath shook his head, with a mournful smile. "Ah, you will agree with me—later. In the meantime, I want to talk to you about my next novel. Do you think we could make it worth your while to illustrate it for us?" He dragged Lancaster off into the library and bored him, for at least ten minutes. From the other room came sounds of music. Someone was singing. "In Einem Kuehlen Grunde" went the soft, sweet old ballad. Lancaster promised Wreath that he would let the writer's publishers know definitely in a day or so, whether he would undertake the illustrations. He hurried back into the salon, muttering, as he went.
"Several haystacks; two threshing-day scenes; several prairie pictures, one for each season of the year—that's about what those illustrations will have to be. Well, I'd do it twice over if that man would promise to let me alone!"
It was Dorothy Ware that had been singing. She got up just as he entered the room. She caught his look, and smiled to him. "You must take me to the conservatory," she commanded, with a pretty air of authority, "for singing is warm work." She took his arm, and while someone else went to the piano and began to play the ballet from "Sylvia," together they strolled out into the cooler rooms beyond.