Her looks had improved since her marriage. For some unknown reason she scrutinized herself dispassionately that night, and she realized that she was infinitely more attractive to men than when Gilbert had married her. Her figure now was almost as good as her mother’s had been at her age. Indeed, the tops of her arms and her wrists were even prettier. She remembered what an old friend of her mother’s had once said to her just before her marriage. “You will be much admired, my dear, and you will remain naturally good-looking longer than your mother has done. But you will never enslave all sorts and conditions of men as she did—not that you come so far below her in looks, but because hers is the beauté du diable, that irresistible magnet to unregenerate man. You look too intelligent, too independent, too critical. That will pique some here and there, but the woman who shows obviously that she likes men and that they are necessary to her always finds a return for that compliment. Besides, she holds out hopes of reward which your type does not. The majority of men are childish and lazy: they pick the fruit on the lowest branches. You would be too exigeante, you would demand more than they could give. Your nature is not that of a Circe, and men will know it instinctively.” Then she had kissed her affectionately and added, “I am glad you have no beauté du diable. The world is better without it. Take your place in the heart of one man, not in the passions of many.”
Claudia thought over these words as she thoughtfully pulled on her gloves. And simultaneously she recalled a scene soon after Gilbert’s proposal when she had, as to-night, stood in front of the mirror and slowly divesting herself of her garments, half shyly, half exultingly, because of her love of beauty, had watched the charms of her body emerge. She had rejoiced in her own comeliness because it was a gift she was bringing to her husband, a wedding gift such as few women could present.
She shrugged her shoulders at the recollection, and her face hardened a little. She had learned how evanescent a thing is passion with a man of Gilbert’s self-centred, violent nature. And the knowledge rankled, so that as she looked at herself something which was not the individual, Claudia Currey, the wife of the new K.C., but Women Unsatisfied and Disappointed, crept into her eyes and mouth, and which, for the first time, gave her some fleeting resemblance to her mother. Was her mother’s old friend quite right? Was there no touch of the devil’s beauty in her looks now? Perhaps she would have changed her mind if she could have seen the woman looking broodingly at her own reflection, a smouldering defiance in her eyes, an unformed challenge on her lips. That it was not the real Claudia that looked so, the passionate-hearted, idealistic woman who walked away with her head held high, the elder woman would have known; but she would have had to acknowledge regretfully that Claudia was evolving.
Then had she been present she would have seen the little hardness disappear as morning mist before the sun, as a familiar padding sound became evident along the carpet.
Only Billie, only a dog, but so unchangeably devoted, so unceasingly responsive. In a sudden burst of thwarted affection she caught him up, heedless of her costly embroideries, and hugged his fat bundle of soft brown fur. At least this creature loved her, she was his whole world and——
“Mr. Hamilton, madam.”
Billie found himself gently deposited on the floor, where he stood wagging his tail with pleasure at the caress, yet eyeing her beseechingly, as he always did when she was going out, as if to say, “Are you really going to leave me again?”
“Tell Mr. Hamilton that I am quite ready. Is the fur rug in the motor? It will be cold coming home to-night.”
She refastened a corsage spray that had been loosened, and picked up an Eastern-looking garment of dull golds and browns, with a chiffon and skunk muff that matched. Outside it was freezing, and the trees in the Park were lightly powdered with snow. Billie stood on his short stumpy hind legs—a great effort by reason of his plumpness—and besought her to stay with him. Claudia laughed gently, and stooping down, took the little useless, dangling paws in her hand.