"I see you are admiring Miss Latouche, like the rest of us," said Mrs. Maitland in a low voice. "Such a talented girl! She can play positively any kind of instrument, and has persuaded me to have the old harp taken out of the lumber-room and put in order for her. She looks so well playing it, doesn't she? Quite like Cleopatra or the Queen of Sheba!"
"She is undoubtedly handsome in a certain style," I replied cautiously. "I don't know whether I admire such a gipsy type myself—"
"Ah, you agree with me then," interrupted my hostess eagerly. "I call it an uncomfortable sort of beauty for a drawing-room. She always looks as if she might produce a dagger at a moment's notice, as the people do in operas. Give me a nice simple girl with a pretty English face, like my niece Lily Wallace over there! But I am bound to say Miss Latouche makes a great sensation wherever she goes. Of course she has wonderful powers."
I was about to inquire in what these powers consisted, when Mrs. Maitland was called away. Left to myself, I could not repress a smile at the comparison she had instituted between her own niece and the beautiful stranger. Lily was well enough, a good-tempered pink and white girl, who in twenty years' time would develop into just such another florid matron as her aunt. And then I looked again at Miss Latouche.
She was seated a little apart from the rest, one white arm hanging listlessly over the harp upon which she had just been playing. Her large dark eyes had a far-away look of utter abstraction from all sub-lunary matters that I have never seen in anyone besides. Masses of wavy black hair were loosely coiled over her head, round a high Spanish comb, and half concealed her brow in a dusky cloud. At first sight the black velvet dress, which swept around her in heavy folds, seemed rather an unsuitable costume for so young a girl. But its sombreness was relieved by a gorgeous Indian scarf, thrown carelessly over the shoulders. I do not know who was responsible for Miss Latouche's get-up, or if she really required an extra wrap. At any rate, the combination of colours was very effective.
Whilst I was speculating vaguely on the probable character of this striking young lady, she slowly rose from her low seat and crossed the room. Her eyes were wide open, but apparently fixed on space, and she moved with the slow, mechanical motion of a sleepwalker. To my intense surprise she came straight towards me, and stood in an expectant attitude about a yard from where I was sitting. Not knowing exactly how to receive this advance, I jumped up and offered her my chair. She waved it aside with a gesture of imperial scorn. Her dark eyes positively flashed fire, and a rich glow flushed her pale olive cheek. I could see that I had deeply offended her.
"I must apologise," I began nervously, "but I thought you might be tired."
Before the words were fairly spoken, I realised the full imbecility of this remark. My only excuse for making such a fatuous observation was that the near vicinity of this weird beauty had paralysed my reasoning faculties, so that I hardly knew what I was saying. And then she spoke in a low, rich voice which thrilled me through every nerve. I could not understand the meaning of her words, or even recognise the language in which they were spoken. But the tone of her voice was unutterably sad, like an inarticulate wail of despair. All the time her glorious eyes were resting on me as if she would read my inmost thoughts, whilst I responded with an idiotic smile of embarrassment. Even now, after the lapse of years, it makes me hot all over to think of that moment.
I don't know how long I had been standing looking like a fool, when Miss Latouche turned away as abruptly as she had approached and walked straight to the door. With a sigh of relief I sank down on the despised chair. After a few moments I gained sufficient courage to glance round and assure myself that no spectators had witnessed my discomfiture. It was a great relief to find that the entire party had migrated to the further end of the room, where a funny little man was singing comic songs with a banjo accompaniment. I slipped in next my host, who was thoroughly enjoying the performance.
"Encore! Capital! Give us some more of it, Tommy," he roared when the song came to an end. "That's my sort of music, isn't it yours, Carew?" he added, turning to me.