“Met a fallen god?” he inquired lightly.
She nodded, meeting his searching gaze with an innocent stare.
“Then, unconquered lady, beware!” he shook a solemn finger, not at all reassured by the innocent stare. Experience had taught him that even the best of women lie when occasion demands it. “The fallen god is the most dangerous of all. His halo may be crooked, but it dazzles. His poor, stumbling feet of clay inspire that pity which poets claim is akin to love.”
He finished with a mock heroic flourish. They both laughed aloud.
“Don’t be niggards. Share the joke,” came a husky drawl from behind them, as the long, but prodigious, Ellen Barnes sank into the nearest chair. An actress of the foremost rank, of greater personal than artistic appeal, her ample shoulders had assumed the regal mantle of Broadway. Her reign undisputed, her manner was more royal than the queen’s.
The Marchese smiled upon the intruder suavely. He thought her acting execrable, and knew she would be hissed off any worth-while French or Italian stage, but her regular, well-nourished beauty was reposeful, her languid air tickled his humor.
“The Marchese was discussing feet,” said Anne slyly, rather relieved at the interruption.
The other woman stared incredulously.
“Feet? Metrical or unpoetic like mine?” she threw out a large, but shapely foot, and regarded it with satisfaction.
“Ellen, your vanity is incorrigible!” laughed Anne lightly as she rose. “But if you promise to be a good girl and not corrupt the Marchese I’ll trust you alone with him for a while. They are waving to me from the piano.”