The Princess Mistchenka came leisurely and gracefully downstairs a
little before eight that evening, much pleased with her hair,
complexion, and gown.
She found Neeland alone in the music-room, standing in the attitude of
the conventional Englishman with his back to the fireless grate and
his hands clasped loosely behind him, waiting to be led out and fed.
The direct glance of undisguised admiration with which he greeted the
Princess Naïa confirmed the impression she herself had received from
her mirror, and brought an additional dash of colour into her delicate
brunette face.
"Is there any doubt that you are quite the prettiest objet d'art in
Paris?" he enquired anxiously, taking her hand; and her dark eyes were
very friendly as he saluted her finger-tips with the reverent and
slightly exaggerated appreciation of a connoisseur in sculpture.
"You hopeless Irishman," she laughed. "It's fortunate for women that
you're never serious, even with yourself."
"Princess Naïa," he remonstrated, "can nothing short of kissing you
convince you of my sincerity and----"
"Impudence?" she interrupted smilingly. "Oh, yes, I'm convinced,
James, that, lacking other material, you'd make love to a hitching
post."
His hurt expression and protesting gesture appealed to the universe
against misinterpretation, but the Princess Mistchenka laughed again
unfeelingly, and seated herself at the piano.
"Some day," she said, striking a lively chord or two, "I hope you'll
catch it, young man. You're altogether too free and easy with your
feminine friends.... What do you think of Rue Carew?"
"An astounding and enchanting transformation. I haven't yet recovered
my breath."
"When you do, you'll talk nonsense to the child, I suppose."
"Princess! Have I ever----"
"You talk little else, dear friend, when God sends a pretty fool to
listen!" She looked up at him from the keyboard over which her hands
were nervously wandering. "I ought to know," she said; "I also have
listened." She laughed carelessly, but her glance lingered for an
instant on his face, and her mirth did not sound quite spontaneous to
either of them.
Two years ago there had been an April evening after the opera, when,
in taking leave of her in her little salon, her hand had perhaps
retained his a fraction of a second longer than she quite intended;
and he had, inadvertently, kissed her.
He had thought of it as a charming and agreeable incident; what the
Princess Naïa Mistchenka thought of it she never volunteered. But she
so managed that he never again was presented with a similar
opportunity.