Aileen, taken off her guard by this effrontery, uncertain as to whether there might not be something of some slight import concerning which he wished to speak to her, quarreling with herself because of her indecision, really fascinated by Lynde as a rival for her affections, and remembering his jesting, coaxing voice of the morning, decided to go down. She was lonely, and, clad in a lavender housegown with an ermine collar and sleeve cuffs, was reading a book.
“Show him into the music-room,” she said to the lackey. When she entered she was breathing with some slight difficulty, for so Lynde affected her. She knew she had displayed fear by not going to him before, and previous cowardice plainly manifested does not add to one’s power of resistance.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, with an assumption of bravado which she did not feel. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon after your telephone message. You have never been in our house before, have you? Won’t you put up your coat and hat and come into the gallery? It’s brighter there, and you might be interested in some of the pictures.”
Lynde, who was seeking for any pretext whereby he might prolong his stay and overcome her nervous mood, accepted, pretending, however, that he was merely passing and with a moment to spare.
“Thought I’d get just one glimpse of you again. Couldn’t resist the temptation to look in. Stunning room, isn’t it? Spacious—and there you are! Who did that? Oh, I see—Van Beers. And a jolly fine piece of work it is, too, charming.”
He surveyed her and then turned back to the picture where, ten years younger, buoyant, hopeful, carrying her blue-and-white striped parasol, she sat on a stone bench against the Dutch background of sky and clouds. Charmed by the picture she presented in both cases, he was genially complimentary. To-day she was stouter, ruddier—the fiber of her had hardened, as it does with so many as the years come on; but she was still in full bloom—a little late in the summer, but in full bloom.
“Oh yes; and this Rembrandt—I’m surprised! I did not know your husband’s collection was so representative. Israels, I see, and Gerome, and Meissonier! Gad! It is a representative collection, isn’t it?”
“Some of the things are excellent,” she commented, with an air, aping Cowperwood and others, “but a number will be weeded out eventually—that Paul Potter and this Goy—as better examples come into the market.”
She had heard Cowperwood say as much, over and over.
Finding that conversation was possible between them in this easy, impersonal way, Aileen became quite natural and interested, pleased and entertained by his discreet and charming presence. Evidently he did not intend to pay much more than a passing social call. On the other hand, Lynde was studying her, wondering what effect his light, distant air was having. As he finished a very casual survey of the gallery he remarked: