For now she began to comprehend how ruthless that creed could become when professed by such a girl as Marya Lanois.
She was still seated there when Marya came in, her tiger-red hair in fascinating disorder from the wind, her skin fairly breathing the warm fragrance of exotic youth.
“My Palla! How pale you seem!” she exclaimed, embracing her. “You are quite well? Really? Then I am reassured!”
She went to the mirror and tucked in a burnished strand or two of hair.
“These Chicago ladies––they have not arrived, I 274 see. Am I then so early? For I see that Ilse is not yet here–––”
“It is only a quarter to eight,” said Palla, smiling; but the brown eyes were calmly measuring this lithe and warm and lovely thing with green eyes––measuring it intently––taking its measure––taking, for the first time in her life, her measure of any woman.
“Was Vanya’s concert a great success?” she asked.
“Vanya has not yet returned.” She shrugged. “There was nothing in New York papers.”
“I suppose you were very nervous last night,” said Palla.