Mrs. Wright was unprepared for the magnificence of Mrs. Schmitz, when she swept down the stairway without her cloak. She wore a rich and becoming gown remodeled from one of her old ones, and a few rare jewels. The long train lent height to her massive body; and the lines of skirt and bodice gave her an elegance that was entirely lost in the squat effect of her ordinary severely tailored street suit.
Sydney looked at her again and again. That day in the lily house she had been wonderful; but tonight she was some one else he felt, and he was shy about speaking to her. But Max was not; he paid her extravagant compliments and with pride introduced her to his friends, and to Dr. and Mrs. Carter.
They belonged together, those two, Sydney thought; not because of any physical resemblance between the slender, aristocratic looking boy and the big woman, but because each possessed a spirit that compelled attention, that won all, that was the essence of good breeding, world wide.
There was no bitterness in Sydney’s attitude now; he was beginning to recognize the value of daily association with Max.
The musicale progressed much as musicales usually do; yet for two people it became the greatest occasion in the world.
Toward the close of the program Mrs. Wright persuaded Ida to sing, explaining to the audience the youth and inexperience of her “song bird.” Ida’s simple ballad, sung without affectation in her fresh voice, pleased them all and won an encore.
She stood again and sang without accompaniment a plaintive German song, a sweet, tender tune that lingered even after she took her seat.
With the first note Mrs. Schmitz bent forward, lips parted, her wide eyes fixed on the girl. Sydney, watching Ida, saw her look their way; saw her countenance change, though she continued steadily to the end.
But when he looked again at Mrs. Schmitz he knew that it was her face, white as the dogwood blossom hanging above her, not his, that arrested the singer’s eye.