“Mrs. Fawcette,” she called gayly, “Mr. Clayton is dying to come to the tea with us this afternoon. Do you suppose you could manage to take him?”
Then I saw a queer thing happen. Mrs. Fawcette turned as though she had been stung and glanced first at me and then at Natalie, with a scarcely veiled intensity that left us startled in our turn. She did not answer for a moment, and Natalie was driven into further speech.
“I’ve been telling him about that wonderful tea we had there before, and he wants to come along and sample it. But of course if you’d rather not——” She glanced from Mrs. Fawcette to me in obvious embarrassment.
I thought Mrs. Fawcette had grown rather pale, but she answered now and readily enough: “You bad girl! I told you not to talk about that tea, or our host will be swamped with people coming to sample it and demanding where he got it. But if Mr. Clayton wants to come with us, I shall be delighted to include him in the party.” She avoided my eyes as she spoke. “He can see you home afterwards,” she added.
There was an almost venomous light in her eyes as she spoke. But if Natalie saw it she appeared serenely unconscious of the fact.
“Thank you,” she answered, “and I’m awfully sorry if I should not have talked to him about it.”
Naturally I did not feel very comfortable about my position in the party, but I was determined to go, and so made no demur to my somewhat left-handed invitation. And later, when we found ourselves in Mrs. Fawcette’s car on the way to her friend’s house, she seemed to wish to make amends by being very cordial to us both. But I did not much relish the look in her eye when it fell on Natalie all the same.
Our host was a Russian, an aristocrat and a card from the fallen house of cards that had been Russia, carried by the wind of that fall into a new country and a new circle.
Unlike most Russian aristocrat refugees, however, he seemed to have plenty of means. The house, just off Fifth Avenue in the Eighties, was beautifully if somewhat barbarically furnished, with a queer mixture of Occidental comfort in the shape of deep lounges and armchairs, and of Oriental splendor in many and rich hangings and cushions. The air of his rooms was heavy with perfume, and the man himself, with his pale skin, deep-set eyes and pointed beard, gave an impression of something equally exotic. We were the only guests and he welcomed us with almost effusive cordiality, myself included. But I did not take to him at all.
After a few moments of general conversation, Mrs. Fawcette rose to her feet, smiling. “Droga,” she called to him—he was talking to Natalie—“I have brought something to show you. I am sure that the young people will excuse us for a moment!”