On the roof, close to the chimney, the one-eyed man and Soane peered down into the studio through the smeared ventilator.
In the studio Dulcie’s first party was drawing to an early but jolly end.
She had danced a dozen times with Barres, and her heart was full of sheerest happiness—the unreasoning bliss which asks no questions, is endowed with neither reason nor vision—the matchless delight which fills the candid, unquestioning heart of Youth.
Nothing had marred her party for her, not even the importunity of Esmé Trenor, which she had calmly disregarded as of no interest to her.
True, for a few moments, while Barres and Thessalie were on the balcony outside, Dulcie had become 150 a trifle subdued. But the wistful glances she kept casting toward the long window were free from meaner taint; neither jealousy nor envy had ever found lodging in the girl’s mind or heart. There was no room to let them in now.
Also, she was kept busy enough, one man after another claiming her for a dance. And she adored it—even with Trenor, who danced extremely well when he took the trouble. And he was taking it now with Dulcie; taking a different tone with her, too. For if it were true, as some said, that Esmé Trenor was three-quarters charlatan, he was no fool. And Dulcie began to find him entertaining to the point of a smile or two, as her spontaneous tribute to Esmé’s efforts.
That languid apostle said afterward to Mandel, where they were lounging over the piano:
“Little devil! She’s got a mind of her own, and she knows it. I’ve had to make efforts, Corot!—efforts, if you please, to attract her mere attention. I’m exhausted!—never before had to make any efforts—never in my life!”
Mandel’s heavy-lidded eyes of a big bird rested on Dulcie, where she was seated. Her gaze was lifted to Barres, who bent over her in jesting conversation.