Mme. Petrovskey’s voice followed her almost caressingly.
“Of course not, dear child. That’s right, take care of yourself. You’re looking so much better already. I think Dr. Elliott (is that the young man’s name?) is quite a treasure. We must cultivate him, my dear.”
CHAPTER XIV
RAPTURE
Mac Dougal Alley on a black, starless night was quite Hogarthian, decided the Marchese, as he pressed Ellen’s doorbell, the ultra-chic in slums! He encountered the fathomless black eyes of the Chinese girl who admitted him, with a smile. What a white, round face, like an enigmatic moon. Did it conceal a personality as void as that lifeless planet? The gorgeous little figure preceded him into the house. He looked about him with amusement.
A diminutive hall had been rendered significant, not to say sinister, by being lined to the ceiling by large black and white tiles, and encircled by a Gauguinesque frieze, negroid and undefinably lecherous. By the door, two grinning sable cats supported a black marble bench. Leaving hat and coat in their guardianship, the Marchese entered the drawing room.
It was like going into a twilight grotto. Everything from heavy brocaded hangings to the deep pile carpet, dripped lavender. One felt as if one were treading upon crushed violets. Torrigiani sank down upon a lavender sofa and stared aghast into the expressionless eyes of a slightly soiled nude over the black marble fireplace. Her eyes look like tired oysters, he thought, his mind wandering emptily. And the room about as cheerful as the inside of a casket, done by an expensive and lady-like undertaker. The candle in the tall bracket by his side guttered audibly. He started. Where the devil was everybody? He had understood it was to be a large party. Surely he was not ahead of time? No, for the large black clock was tolling a quarter past eight, and was not that the voice of his hostess?
He rose and walked towards the door. Somber draperies hanging from white shoulders, Ellen strolled into the room elaborately languid, as usual.
“Ah, Marchese, I see you are admiring my little nest,” she drawled. He bent over her hand.
“I am speechless,” he murmured. “It is utterly beyond my poor comprehension. I feel like the intruding cuckoo.”
With a purring laugh, she laid her hand upon his arm and led him back to the sofa.