On the afternoon in question the rooms on the lower floor were crowded with laughter, perfume, silks, jewels, furs and the hum of animated voices.
Bowls of early spring bloom, azaleas, jonquils, mammoth daisies, stood on tables and at either side of the arched doorway. A faint blue haze of cigarette smoke hung overhead. Twilight had sifted through sunlight before Parsinova appeared. She always came late.
As she stood, a silhouette within the white arch between the shining bowls of jonquils, there was a general hush, then a forward movement. She was gowned entirely in black—black lace trailing from her feet, a black hat shadowing her face, and drooping from it to curl against her shoulder, a black paradise. Black pearls dangled from her ears and a strand of them about her neck emphasized its whiteness.
[28]
] “Isn’t she wonderful? What personality—what atmosphere!”
“There’s no one like her.”
“She fairly oozes temperament.”
“Absolutely startling!”
“By Jove—these foreigners! Naughty but—er—so promising, don’t you know!”
Mrs. Collingwood Martin bore her triumphantly to a thronelike chair and presented the guests in turn.
Parsinova’s manner was charming, a bit weary but gracious, and her efforts to carry on a conversation in colloquial English were excruciating.