Puma stood up, heavily, cradling his glossy hat. But his urbane smile became brilliant again and he made Palla an extravagant bow.
“It shall be arrange,” he said cheerfully. “I consult my partner––your friend, Mr. Skidder! Yes! So shall we arrive at entente.”
His large womanish eyes swept the room. Suddenly they were arrested by a photograph of Shotwell Junior––in a silver frame––the only ornament, as yet, in the little drawing room.
And instantly, within Angelo Puma, the venomous instinct was aroused to do injury where it might be done safely and without suspicion of intent.
“Ah,” he exclaimed gaily, “my friend, Mr. Shotwell! It is from him, Miss Dumont, you have purchase this so beautiful residence!”
He bent to salute with a fanciful inclination the photograph of the man who had spoken so contemptuously of him the evening previous.
“Mr. Shotwell also adores gaiety,” he said laughingly. “Last night I beheld him at the Palace of Mirrors––and with an attractive young lady of your club, Miss Dumont––the charming young Russian lady with whom you came once to pay me the rent––” He 272 kissed his hand in an ecstasy of recollection. “So beautiful a young lady! So gay were they in their box! Ah, youth! youth! Ah, the happiness and folly when laughter bubbles in our wine!––the magic wine of youth!”
He took his leave, moving lightly to the door, almost grotesque in his elaborate evolutions and adieux.
Palla went slowly upstairs.
The evening paper lay on a table in the living room. She unfolded it mechanically; looked at it but saw no print, merely an unsteady haze of greyish tint on which she could not seem to concentrate.