Marya rested her tawny young head on the cushions again and smiled at Shotwell:
“It’s confusing even to Russians,” she said, “––like a crazy Bakst spectacle at the Marinsky. I wonder what you must think of us.”
But on her expressive mouth the word “us” might almost have meant “me,” and he paid her the easy compliment which came naturally to him, while she looked at him out of lazy and very lovely eyes as green as beryls.
“Tiche,” she murmured, smiling, “ce n’est pas moi l’état, monsieur.” And laughed while her indolent glance slanted sideways on Vanya, and lingered there as though in leisurely but amiable appraisal.
The girl was evidently very young, but there seemed to be an indefinable something about her that hinted of experience beyond her years.
Palla had been looking at her––from Shotwell to her––and Marya’s sixth sense was already aware of it and asking why.
For between two females of the human species the constant occult interplay is like steady lighting. With invisible antennæ they touch one another incessantly, delicately exploring inside that grosser aura which is all that the male perceives.
And finally Marya looked back at Palla.
“May Mr. Tchernov play for us?” asked Palla, smiling, as though some vague authority in the matter were vested in this young girl with the tiger-hair.