The Diva's Ruby Page 3

  CHAPTER III

  A few days after she had talked with Lady Maud, and before Mr. VanTorp's arrival, Margaret had gone abroad, without waiting for thepromised advice in the matter of the wedding-gown. With admirableregard for the proprieties she had quite declined to let Logotheticross the Channel with her, but had promised to see him at Versailles,where she was going to stop a few days with her mother's old Americanfriend, the excellent Mrs. Rushmore, with whom she meant to go toBayreuth to hear _Parsifal_ for the first time.

  Mrs. Rushmore had disapproved profoundly of Margaret's career, fromthe first. After Mrs. Donne's death, she had taken the forlorn girlunder her protection, and had encouraged her to go on with what shevaguely called her 'music lessons.' The good lady was one of thosedear, old-fashioned, kind, delicate-minded and golden-hearted Americanwomen we may never see again, now that 'progress' has got civilisationby the throat and is squeezing the life out of it. She called Margarether 'chickabiddy' and spread a motherly wing over her, without theleast idea that she was rearing a valuable lyric nightingale thatwould not long be content to trill and quaver unheard.

  Immense and deserved success had half reconciled the old lady to whathad happened, and after all Margaret had not married an Italian tenor,a Russian prince, or a Parisian composer, the three shapes of manwhich seemed the most dreadfully immoral to Mrs. Rushmore. She wouldfind it easier to put up with Logotheti than with one of those, thoughit was bad enough to think of her old friend's daughter marrying aGreek instead of a nice, clean Anglo-Saxon, like the learned Mr.Donne, the girl's father, or the good Mr. Rushmore, her lamentedhusband, who had been an upright pillar of the church in New York, andthe president of a Trust Company that could be trusted.

  After all, though she thought all Greeks must be what she called'designing,' the name of Konstantin Logotheti was associated witheverything that was most honourable in the financial world, and thisimpressed Mrs. Rushmore very much. Her harmless weakness had alwaysbeen for lions, and none but the most genuine ones were allowed toroar at her garden-parties or at her dinner table. When the Greekfinancier had first got himself introduced to her more than two yearsearlier, she had made the most careful inquiries about him and haddiligently searched the newspapers for every mention of him during awhole month. The very first paragraph she had found was about a newrailway which he had taken under his protection, and the writer saidthat his name was a guarantee of good faith. This impressed herfavourably, though the journalist might have had reasons for makingprecisely the same statement if he had known Logotheti to be afraudulent promoter. One of the maxims she had learned in her youth,which had been passed in the Golden Age of old New York, was that'business was a test of character.' Mr. Rushmore used to say that, soit must be true, she thought; and indeed the excellent man might havesaid with equal wisdom that long-continued rain generally producesdampness. He would have turned in his well-kept grave if he could haveheard a Wall Street cynic say that nowadays an honest man may get abare living, and a drunkard has been known to get rich, but thatintegrity and whisky together will inevitably land anybody in theworkhouse.

  Logotheti was undoubtedly considered honest, however, and Mrs.Rushmore made quite sure of it, as well as of the fact that he had animmense fortune. So far as the cynic's observation goes, it may not beequally applicable everywhere, any more than it is true that allGreeks are blacklegs, as the Parisians are fond of saying, or that allParisians are much worse, as their own novelists try to make out. Ifanything is more worthless than most men's opinion of themselves, itis their opinion of others, and it is unfortunately certain that thepeople who understand human nature best, and lead it whither theywill, are not those that labour to save souls or to cure sickness, butdemagogues, quacks, fashionable dressmakers, and money-lenders. Mrs.Rushmore was a judge of lions, but she knew nothing about humanity.

  At Versailles, with its memories of her earlier youth, the Primadonnawished to be Margaret Donne again, and to forget for the time that shewas the Cordova, whose name was always first on the opera posters inNew York, London, and Vienna; who covered her face with grease-painttwo or three times a week; who loved the indescribable mixed smell ofboards, glue, scenery, Manila ropes and cotton-velvet-clad chorus,behind the scenes; who lived on applause, was made miserable now andthen by a criticism which any other singer would have thoughtflattery, and who was, in fact, an extraordinary compound of geniusand simplicity, generosity and tetchiness, tremendous energy in onedirection and intellectual torpidity and total indifference in allothers. If she could have gone directly from Covent Garden to anotherengagement, the other self would not have waked up just then; but shemeant to take a long holiday, and in order not to miss the stage toomuch, it was indispensable to forget it for a while.

  She travelled incognito. That is to say, she had sent her first maidand theatrical dresser Alphonsine to see her relations in Nancy for amonth, and only brought the other with her; she had, moreover, causedthe stateroom on the Channel boat to be taken in the name of MissDonne, and she brought no more luggage to Versailles than could bepiled on an ordinary cart, whereas when she had last come from NewYork her servants had seen eighty-seven pieces put on board thesteamer, and a hat-box had been missing after all.

  Mrs. Rushmore came out to meet her on the steps in the hot sunshine,portly and kind as ever, and she applied an embrace which wasaffectionate, yet imposing.

  'My dearest child!' she cried. 'I was sure I had not quite lost youyet!'

  'I hope you will never think you have,' Margaret answered, almostquite in her girlish voice of old.

  She was very glad to come back. As soon as they were alone in the cooldrawing-room, Mrs. Rushmore asked her about her engagement in a toneof profound concern, as though it were a grave bodily ailment whichmight turn out to be fatal.

  'Don't take it so seriously,' Margaret answered with a little laugh;'I'm not married yet!'

  The elderly face brightened.

  'Do you mean to say that--that there is any hope?' she asked eagerly.

  Margaret laughed now, but in a gentle and affectionate sort of way.

  'Perhaps, just a little! But don't ask me, please. I've comehome--this is always home for me, isn't it?--I've come home to forgeteverything for a few weeks.'

  'Thank heaven!' ejaculated Mrs. Rushmore in a tone of deep relief.'Then if--if he should call this afternoon, or even to-morrow--may Itell them to say that you are out?'

  She was losing no time; and Margaret laughed again, though she put herhead a little on one side with an expression of doubt.

  'I can't refuse to see him,' she said, 'though really I would muchrather be alone with you for a day or two.'

  'My darling child!' cried Mrs. Rushmore, applying another embrace,'you shall! Leave it to me!'

  Mrs. Rushmore's delight was touching, for she could almost feel thatMargaret had come to see her quite for her own sake, whereas she hadpictured the 'child,' as she still called the great artist, spendingmost of her time in carrying on inaudible conversations with Logothetiunder the trees in the lawn, or in the most remote corners of thedrawing-room; for that had been the accepted method of courtship inMrs. Rushmore's young days, and she was quite ignorant of the changesthat had taken place since then.

  Half-an-hour later, Margaret was in her old room upstairs writing aletter, and Mrs. Rushmore had given strict orders that until furthernotice Miss Donne was 'not at home' for any one at all, no matter whomight call.

  When the letter already covered ten pages, Margaret laid down her penand without the least pause or hesitation tore the sheets to tinybits, inking her fingers in the process because the last one was notyet dry.

  'What a wicked woman I am!' she exclaimed aloud, to the very greatsurprise of Potts, her English maid, who was still unpacking in thenext room, the door being open.

  'Beg pardon, ma'am?' the woman asked, putting in her head.

  'I said I was a wicked woman,' Margaret answered, rising; 'and what'smore, I believe I am. But I quite forgot you were there, Potts,
or Iprobably should not have said it aloud.'

  'Yes, ma'am,' answered Potts meekly, and she went back to herunpacking.

  Margaret had two maids, who were oddly suited to her two natures. Shehad inherited Alphonsine from her friend the famous retired soprano,Madame Bonanni, and the cadaverous, clever, ill-tempered, garrulousdresser was as necessary to Cordova's theatrical existence as paint,limelight, wigs, and an orchestra. The English Potts, the meek,silent, busy, and intensely respectable maid, continually made itclear that her mistress was Miss Donne, an English lady, and thatMadame Cordova, the celebrated singer, was what Mr. Van Torp wouldhave called 'only a side-show.'

  Potts was quite as much surprised when she heard Miss Donne callingherself a wicked woman as Alphonsine would have been if she had heardMadame Cordova say that she sang completely out of tune, a statementwhich would not have disturbed the English maid's equanimity in thevery least. It might have pleased her, for she always secretly hopedthat Margaret would give up the stage, marry an English gentleman witha nice name, and live in Hans Crescent or Cadogan Gardens, or someequally smart place, and send Alphonsine about her business for ever.

  For the English maid and the French maid hated each other aswhole-heartedly as if Cressy or Agincourt had been fought yesterday.Potts alluded to Alphonsine as 'that Frenchwoman,' and Alphonsinespoke of Potts as 'l'Anglaise,' with a tone and look of witheringscorn, as if all English were nothing better than animals. Also shedisdained to understand a word of their 'abominable jargon'; and Pottsquietly called the French language 'frog-talk,' but spoke it quiteintelligibly, though without the least attempt at an accent.Nevertheless, each of the two was devoted to Margaret, and they wereboth such excellent servants that they never quarrelled or evenexchanged a rude word--to Margaret's knowledge. They treated eachother with almost exaggerated politeness, calling each otherrespectively 'Meess' and 'Mamzell'; and if Alphonsine's black eyesglared at Potts now and then, the English maid put on such an air ofsweetly serene unconsciousness as a woman of the world might haveenvied.

  The letter that had been torn up before it was finished was to havegone to Lady Maud, but Margaret herself had been almost sure that shewould not send it, even while she was writing. She had poured out herheart, now that she could do so with the consoling possibility ofdestroying the confession before any one read it. She had made anhonest effort to get at the truth about herself by writing down allshe knew to be quite true, as if it were to go to her best friend; butas soon as she realised that she had got to the end of her positiveknowledge and was writing fiction--which is what might be true, but isnot known to be--she had the weakness to tear up her letter, and tocall herself names for not knowing her own mind, as if every womandid, or every man either.

  She had written that she had done very wrong in engaging herself toLogotheti; that was the 'wickedness' she accused herself of,repeating the self-accusation to her astonished maid, because it was asort of relief to say the words to somebody. She had written that shedid not really care for him in that way; that when he was near shecould not resist a sort of natural attraction he had for her, but thatas soon as he was gone she felt it no longer and she wished he wouldnot come back; that his presence disturbed her and made heruncomfortable, and, moreover, interfered with her art; but that shehad not the courage to tell him so, and wished that some one elsewould do it for her; that he was not really the sort of man she couldever be happy with; that her ideal of a husband was so and so, andthis and that--and here fiction had begun, and she had put a stop toit by destroying the whole letter instead of crossing out a fewlines,--which was a pity; for if Lady Maud had received it, she wouldhave told Mr. Van Torp that he needed no help from her since Margaretherself asked no better than to be freed from the engagement.

  Logotheti did not come out to Versailles that afternoon, because hewas plentifully endowed with tact where women were concerned, and heapplied all the knowledge and skill he had to the single purpose ofpleasing Margaret. But before dinner he telephoned and asked to speakwith her, and this she could not possibly refuse. Besides, the day hadseemed long, and though she did not wish for his presence she wantedsomething--that indescribable, mysterious something which disturbedher and made her feel uncomfortable when she felt it, but which shemissed when she did not see him for a day or two.

  'How are you?' asked his voice, and he ran on without waiting for ananswer. 'I hope you are not very tired after crossing yesterday. Icame by Boulogne--decent of me, wasn't it? You must be sick of seeingme all the time, so I shall give you a rest for a day or two.Telephone whenever you think you can bear the sight of me again, andI'll be with you in thirty-five minutes. I shall not stir from home inthis baking weather. If you think I'm in mischief you're quitemistaken, dear lady, for I'm up to my chin in work!'

  'I envy you,' Margaret said, when he paused at last. 'I've nothing onearth to do, and the piano here is out of tune. But you're quiteright, I don't want to see you a little bit, and I'm not jealous, norsuspicious, nor anything disagreeable. So there!'

  'How nice of you!'

  'I'm very nice,' Margaret answered with laughing emphasis. 'I know it.What sort of work are you doing? It's only idle curiosity, so don'ttell me if you would rather not! Have you got a new railway in Brazil,or an overland route to the other side of beyond?'

  'Nothing so easy! I'm brushing up my Tartar.'

  'Brushing up what? I didn't hear.'

  'Tartar--the Tartar language--T-a-r--'he began to spell the word.

  'Yes, I hear now,' interrupted Margaret. 'But what in the world isthe use of knowing it? You must be awfully hard up for something todo!'

  'You can be understood from Constantinople to the Pacific Ocean if youcan speak Tartar,' Logotheti answered in a matter-of-fact tone.

  'I daresay! But you're not going to travel from Constantinople to thePacific Ocean----'

  'I might. One never can tell what one may like to do.'

  'Oh, if it's because Tartar is useful "against the bites of sharks,"'answered Margaret, quoting Alice, 'learn it by all means!'

  'Besides, there are all sorts of people in Paris. I'm sure there mustbe some Tartars. I might meet one, and it would be amusing to be ableto talk to him.'

  'Nonsense! Why should you ever meet a Tartar? How absurd you are!'

  'There's one with me now--close beside me, at my elbow.'

  'Don't be silly, or I'll ring off.'

  'If you don't believe me, listen!'

  He said something in a language Margaret did not understand, andanother voice answered him at once in the same tongue. Margaretstarted slightly and bent her brows with a puzzled and displeasedlook.

  'Is that your teacher?' she asked with more interest in her tone thanshe had yet betrayed.

  'Yes.'

  'I begin to understand. Do you mind telling me how old she is?'

  'It's not "she," it's a young man. I don't know how old he is. I'llask him if you like.'

  Again she heard him speak a few incomprehensible words, which wereanswered very briefly in the same tongue.

  'He tells me he is twenty,' Logotheti said. 'He's a good-looking youngfellow. How is Mrs. Rushmore? I forgot to ask.'

  'She's quite well, thank you. But I should like to know----'

  'Will you be so very kind as to remember me to her, and to say that Ihope to find her at home the day after to-morrow?'

  'Certainly. Come to-morrow if you like. But please tell me how youhappened to pick up that young Tartar. It sounds so interesting! Hehas such a sweet voice.'

  There was no reply to this question, and Margaret could not getanother word from Logotheti. The communication was apparently cut off.She rang up the Central Office and asked for his number again, but theyoung woman soon said that she could get no answer to the call, andthat something was probably wrong with the instrument of NumberOne-hundred-and-six-thirty-seven.

  Margaret was not pleased, and she was silent and absent-minded atdinner and in the evening.

  'It's the reaction after London,' she sai
d with a smile, when Mrs.Rushmore asked if anything was the matter. 'I find I am more tiredthan I knew, now that it's all over.'

  Mrs. Rushmore was quite of the same opinion, and it was still earlywhen she declared that she herself was sleepy and that Margaret hadmuch better go to bed and get a good night's rest.

  But when the Primadonna was sitting before the glass and her maid wasbrushing out her soft brown hair, she was not at all drowsy, andthough her eyes looked steadily at their own reflection in the mirror,she was not aware that she saw anything.

  'Potts,' she said suddenly, and stopped.

  'Yes, ma'am?' answered the maid with meek interrogation, and withoutchecking the regular movement of the big brush.

  But Margaret said no more for several moments. She enjoyed thesensation of having her hair brushed; it made her understand exactlyhow a cat feels when some one strokes its back steadily, and she couldalmost have purred with pleasure as she held her handsome head backand moved it a little in real enjoyment under each soft stroke.

  'Potts,' she began again at last, 'you are not very imaginative, areyou?'

  'No, ma'am,' the maid answered, because it seemed to be expected ofher, though she had never thought of the matter.

  'Do you think you could possibly be mistaken about a voice, if youdidn't see the person who was speaking?'

  'In what way, ma'am?'

  'I mean, do you think you could take a man's voice for a woman's at adistance?'

  'Oh, I see!' Potts exclaimed. 'As it might be, at the telephone?'

  'Well--at the telephone, if you like, or anywhere else. Do you thinkyou might?'

  'It would depend on the voice, ma'am,' observed Potts, with caution.

  'Of course it would,' assented Margaret rather impatiently.

  'Well, ma'am, I'll say this, since you ask me. When I was last at homeI was mistaken in that way about my own brother, for I heard himcalling to me from downstairs, and I took him for my sister Milly.'

  'Oh! That's interesting!' Margaret smiled. 'What sort of voice hasyour brother? How old is he?'

  'He's eight-and-twenty, ma'am; and as for his voice, he has a sweetcounter-tenor, and sings nicely. He's a song-man at the cathedral,ma'am.'

  'Really! How nice! Have you a voice too? Do you sing at all?'

  'Oh, no, ma'am!' answered Potts in a deprecating tone. 'One in thefamily is quite enough!'

  Margaret vaguely wondered why, but did not inquire.

  'You were quite sure that it was your brother who was speaking, Isuppose,' she said.

  'Oh, yes, ma'am! I looked down over the banisters, and there he was!'

  Margaret had the solid health of a great singer, and it would havebeen a serious trouble indeed that could have interfered with herunbroken and dreamless sleep during at least eight hours; but when sheclosed her eyes that night she was quite sure that she could not haveslept at all but for Potts's comforting little story about the brotherwith the 'counter-tenor' voice. Yet even so, at the moment beforewaking in the morning, she dreamt that she was at the telephone again,and that words in a strange language came to her along the wire in asoft and caressing tone that could only be a woman's, and that for thefirst time in all her life she knew what it was to be jealous. Thesensation was not an agreeable one.

  The dream-voice was silent as soon as she opened her eyes, but she hadnot been awake long without realising that she wished very much to seeLogotheti at once, and was profoundly thankful that she had torn upher letter to Lady Maud. She was not prepared to admit, even now, thatKonstantin was the ideal she should have chosen for a husband, andwhom she had been describing from imagination when she had suddenlystopped writing. But, on the other hand, the mere thought that he hadperhaps been amusing himself in the society of another woman allyesterday afternoon made her so angry that she took refuge in tryingto believe that he had spoken the truth and that she had really beenmistaken about the voice.

  It was all very well to talk about learning Tartar! How could she besure that it was not modern Greek, or Turkish? She could not haveknown the difference. Was it so very unlikely that some charmingcompatriot of his should have come from Constantinople to spend a fewweeks in Paris? She remembered the mysterious house in the BoulevardPereire where he lived, the beautiful upper hall where the statue ofAphrodite stood, the doors that would not open like other doors, thestrangely-disturbing encaustic painting of Cleopatra in thedrawing-room--many things which she distrusted.

  Besides, supposing that the language was really Tartar--were there notRussians who spoke it? She thought there must be, because she had avague idea that all Russians were more or less Tartars. There was aproverb about it. Moreover, to the English as well as to the French,Russians represent romance and wickedness.

  She would not go to the telephone herself, but she sent a message toLogotheti, and he came out in the cool time of the afternoon. Shethought he had never looked so handsome and so little exotic since shehad known him. To please her he had altogether given up the terrificties, the lightning-struck waistcoats, the sunrise socks, and theoverpowering jewellery he had formerly affected, and had resignedhimself to the dictation of a London tailor, who told him what hemight, could, should, and must wear for each circumstance and hour ofdaily life, in fine gradations, from deer-stalking to a royalgarden-party. The tailor, who dressed kings and made a specialty ofemperors, was a man of taste, and when he had worked on the Greekfinancier for a few weeks the result was satisfactory; excepting forhis almond-shaped eyes no one could have told Logotheti from anEnglishman by his appearance, a fact which even Potts, whodisapproved of Margaret's choice, was obliged to admit.

  Mrs. Rushmore was amazed and pleased.

  'My dear,' she said afterwards to Margaret, 'what a perfectlywonderful change! Think how he used to look! And now you might almosttake him for an American gentleman!'

  He was received by Mrs. Rushmore and Margaret together, and he tooknoticeable pains to make himself agreeable to the mistress of thehouse. At first Margaret was pleased at this; but when she saw that hewas doing his best to keep Mrs. Rushmore from leaving the room, as sheprobably would have done, Margaret did not like it. She was dying toask him questions about his lessons in Tartar, and especially abouthis teacher, and she probably meant to cast her inquiries in such aform as would make it preferable to examine him alone rather thanbefore Mrs. Rushmore; but he talked on and on, only pausing an instantfor the good lady's expressions of interest or approval. Withdiabolical knowledge of her weakness he led the conversation to thesubject of political and diplomatic lions, and of lions of othervarieties, and made plans for bringing some noble specimens to teawith her. She was not a snob; she distrusted foreign princes,marquises, and counts, and could keep her head well in the presence ofan English peer; but lions were irresistible, and Logotheti offeredher a whole menagerie of them, and described their habits withminuteness, if not with veracity.

  He was telling her what a Prime Minister had told an Ambassador aboutthe Pope, when Margaret rose rather abruptly.

  'I'm awfully sorry,' she said to Mrs. Rushmore, by way of apology,'but I really must have a little air. I've not been out of the houseall day.'

  Mrs. Rushmore understood, and was not hurt, though she was sorry notto hear more. The 'dear child' should go out, by all means. WouldMonsieur Logotheti stay to dinner? No? She was sorry. She hadforgotten that she had a letter to write in time for the afternoonpost. So she went off and left the two together.

  Margaret led the way out upon the lawn, and they sat down on gardenchairs under a big elm-tree. She said nothing while she settledherself very deliberately, avoiding her companion's eyes till she wasquite ready, and then she suddenly looked at him with a sort of blankstare that would have disconcerted any one less superlativelyself-possessed than he was. It was most distinctly Madame de Cordova,the offended Primadonna, that spoke at last, and not Miss MargaretDonne, the 'nice English girl.'

  'What in the world has got into you?' she inquired in a chilly tone.

  He opened his
almond-shaped eyes a little wider, with an excellentaffectation of astonishment at her words and manner.

  'Have I done anything you don't like?' he asked in a tone of anxietyand concern. 'Was I rude to Mrs. Rushmore?'

  Margaret looked at him a moment longer, and then turned her head awayin silence, as if scorning to answer such a silly question. The lookof surprise disappeared from his face, and he became very gloomy andthoughtful but said nothing more. Possibly he had brought aboutexactly what he wished, and was satisfied to await the inevitableresult. It came before long.

  'I don't understand you at all,' Margaret said less icily, but withthe sad little air of a woman who believes herself misunderstood. 'Itwas very odd yesterday, at the telephone, you know--very odd indeed. Isuppose you didn't realise it. And now, this afternoon, you haveevidently been doing your best to keep Mrs. Rushmore from leaving ustogether. You would still be telling her stories about people if Ihadn't obliged you to come out!'

  'Yes,' Logotheti asserted with exasperating calm and meekness, 'weshould still be there.'

  'You did not want to be alone with me, I suppose. There's no otherexplanation, and it's not a very flattering one, is it?'

  'I never flatter you, dear lady,' said Logotheti gravely.

  'But you do! How can you deny it? You often tell me that I make youthink of the Victory in the Louvre----'

  'It's quite true. If the statue had a head it would be a portrait ofyou.'

  'Nonsense! And in your moments of enthusiasm you say that I singbetter than Madame Bonanni in her best days----'

  'Yes. You know quite as much as she ever did, you are a much bettermusician, and you began with a better voice. Therefore you singbetter. I maintain it.'

  'You often maintain things you don't believe,' Margaret retorted,though her manner momentarily relaxed a little.

  'Only in matters of business,' answered the Greek with imperturbablecalm.

  'Pray, is "learning Tartar" a matter of business?' Her eyes sparkledangrily as she asked the question.

  Logotheti smiled; she had reached the point to which he knew she mustcome before long.

  'Oh, yes!' he replied with alacrity. 'Of course it is.'

  'That accounts for everything, since you are admitting that I need noteven try to believe it was a man whom I heard speaking.'

  'To tell the truth, I have some suspicions about that myself,'answered Logotheti.

  'I have a great many.' Margaret laughed rather harshly. 'And youbehave as if you wanted me to have more. Who is this Eastern woman?Come, be frank. She is some one from Constantinople, isn't she? AFanariote like yourself, I daresay--an old friend who is in Paris fora few days, and would not pass through without seeing you. Say so, forheaven's sake, and don't make such a mystery about it!'

  'How very ingenious women are!' observed the Greek. 'If I had thoughtof it I might have told you that story through the telephoneyesterday. But I didn't.'

  Margaret was rapidly becoming exasperated, her eyes flashed, her firmyoung cheeks reddened handsomely, and her generous lips made scornfulcurves.

  'Are you trying to quarrel with me?'

  The words had a fierce ring; he glanced at her quickly and saw howwell her look agreed with her tone. She was very angry.

  'If I were not afraid of boring you,' he said with quiet gravity, 'Iwould tell you the whole story, but----' he pretended to hesitate.

  He heard her harsh little laugh at once.

  'Your worst enemy could not accuse you of being a bore!' she retorted.'Oh, no! It's something quite different from boredom that I feel, Iassure you!'

  'I wish I thought that you cared for me enough to be jealous,'Logotheti said earnestly.

  'Jealous!'

  No one can describe the tone of indignant contempt in which athoroughly jealous woman disclaims the least thought of jealousy witha single word; a man must have heard it to remember what it is like,and most men have. Logotheti knew it well, and at the sound he put onan expression of meek innocence which would have done credit to a catthat had just eaten a canary.

  'I'm so sorry,' he cried in a voice like a child's. 'I didn't mean tomake you angry, I was only wishing aloud. Please forgive me!'

  'If your idea of caring for a woman is to make her jealous----'

  This was such an obvious misinterpretation of his words that shestopped short and bit her lip. He sighed audibly, as if he were verysorry that he could do nothing to appease her, but this only made herfeel more injured. She made an effort to speak coldly.

  'You seem to forget that so long as we are supposed to be engaged Ihave some little claim to know how you spend your time!'

  'I make no secret of what I do. That is why you were angry just now.Nothing could have been easier than for me to say that I was busy withone of the matters you suggested.'

  'Oh, of course! Nothing could be easier than to tell me an untruth!'

  This certainly looked like the feminine retort-triumphant, andMargaret delivered it in a cutting tone.

  'That is precisely what you seem to imply that I did,' Logothetiobjected. 'But if what I told you was untrue your argument goes topieces. There was no Tartar lesson, there was no Tartar teacher, andit was all a fabrication of my own!'

  'Just what I think!' returned Margaret. 'It was not Tartar you spoke,and there was no teacher!'

  'You have me there,' answered the Greek mildly, 'unless you would likeme to produce my young friend and talk to him before you in thepresence of witnesses who know his language.'

  'I wish you would! I should like to see "him"! I should like to seethe colour of "his" eyes and hair!'

  'Black as ink,' said Logotheti.

  'And you'll tell me that "his" complexion is black too, no doubt!'

  'Not at all; a sort of creamy complexion, I think, though I did notpay much attention to his skin. He is a smallish chap, good-looking,with hands and feet like a woman's. I noticed that. As I told you, adoubt occurred to me at once, and I will not positively swear that itis not a girl after all. He, or she, is really a Tartar from CentralAsia, and I know enough of the language to say what was necessary.'

  'Necessary!'

  'Yes. He--or she--came on a matter of business. What I said about ateacher was mere nonsense. Now you know the whole thing.'

  'Excepting what the business was,' Margaret said incredulously.

  'The business was an uncut stone,' answered Logotheti withindifference. 'He had one to sell, and I bought it. He was recommendedto me by a man in Constantinople. He came to Marseilles on a Frenchsteamer with two Greek merchants who were coming to Paris, and theybrought him to my door. That is the whole story. And here is the ruby.I bought it for you, because you like those things. Will you take it?'

  He held out what looked like a little ball of white tissue-paper, butMargaret turned her face from him.

  'You treat me like a child!' she said.

  To her own great surprise and indignation, her voice was unsteady andshe felt something burning in her eyes. She was almost frightened atthe thought that she might be going to cry, out of sheermortification.

  Logotheti said nothing for a moment. He began to unroll the paper fromthe precious stone, but changed his mind, wrapped it up again, and putit back into his watch-pocket before he spoke.

  'I did not mean it as you think,' he said softly.

  She turned her eyes without moving her head, till she could just seethat he was leaning forward, resting his wrists on his knees, bendinghis head, and apparently looking down at his loosely hanging hands.His attitude expressed dejection and disappointment. She was glad ofit. He had no right to think that he could make her as angry as shestill was, angry even to tears, and then bribe her to smile again whenhe was tired of teasing her. Her eyes turned away again, and she didnot answer him.

  'I make mistakes sometimes,' he said, speaking still lower, 'I know Ido. When I am with you I cannot be always thinking of what I say. It'stoo much to ask, when a man is as far gone as I am!'

  'I should like to believe that,' Mar
garet said, without looking athim.

  'Is it so hard to believe?' he asked so gently that she only justheard the words.

  'You don't make it easy, you know,' said she with a little defiance,for she felt that she was going to yield before long.

  'I don't quite know how to. You're not in the least capricious--andyet----'

  'You're mistaken,' Margaret answered, turning to him suddenly. 'I'mthe most capricious woman in the world! Yesterday I wrote a longletter to a friend, and then I suddenly tore it up--there were ever somany pages! I daresay that if I had written just the same letter thismorning, I should have sent it. If that is not caprice, what is it?'

  'It may have been wisdom to tear it up,' Logotheti suggested.

  'I'm not sure. I never ask myself questions about what I do. I hatepeople who are always measuring their wretched little souls and thentinkering their consciences to make them fit! I don't believe I wishto do anything really wrong, and so I do exactly what I like, always!'

  Possibly she had forgotten that she had called herself a wicked womanonly yesterday; but that had been before the conversation at thetelephone.

  'If you will only go on doing what you like,' Logotheti answered, 'itwill give me the greatest pleasure in the world to help you. I onlyask one kindness.'

  'You have no right to ask me anything to-day. You've been quite themost disagreeable person this afternoon that I ever met in my life.'

  'I know I have,' Logotheti answered with admirable contrition. 'I'llwait a day or two before I ask anything; perhaps you will haveforgiven me by that time.'

  'I'm not sure. What was the thing you were going to ask?'

  He was silent now that she wished to know his thought.

  'Have you forgotten it already?' she inquired with a little laugh thatwas encouraging rather than contemptuous, for her curiosity wasroused.

  They looked at each other at last, and all at once she felt the deeplydisturbing sense of his near presence which she had missed for threedays, though she was secretly a little afraid and ashamed of it; andto-day it had not come while her anger had lasted. But now it wasstronger than ever before, perhaps because it came so unexpectedly,and it drew her to him, under the deep shadow of the elm-tree thatmade strange reflections in their eyes--moving reflections of firewhen the lowering sun struck in between the leaves, and sudden, stilldepths when the foliage stirred in the breeze and screened theglancing ray.

  He had played upon her moods for an hour, as a musician touches adelicate and responsive instrument, and she had taken all for earnestand had been angry and hurt, and was reconciled again at his will. Yethe had not done it all to try his power over her, and surely not inany careless contempt of her weaknesses. He cared for her in his way,as he was able, and his love was great, if not of the most noble sort.He was strong, and she waked his strength with fire; he worshippedlife, and her vital beauty thrilled the inner stronghold of his being;when she moved, his passionate intuition felt and followed the linesof her moving grace; if she rested, motionless and near him, hiswaking dream enfolded her in a deep caress. He felt no high and mysticemotion when he thought of her; he had never read of St. Clement'scelestial kingdom, where man and woman are to be one for ever, andtogether neither woman nor man, for such a world could never seemheavenly to him, whose love was altogether earthly. Yet it was Greeklove, not Roman; its deity was beauty, not lust; the tutelary goddessof its temple was not Venus the deadly, the heavy-limbed, with a mouthlike a red wound and slumbrous, sombre eyes, but Cyprian Aphrodite,immortal and golden, the very life of the sparkling sky itself sown inthe foam of the sea.

  Between the two lies all the distance that separates gross idolatryfrom the veneration of the symbol; the gulf that divides the animalmaterialism of a twentieth-century rake from the half-divine dreams ofgenius; the revolting coarseness of Catullus at his worst from himselfat his best, or from an epigram of Meleager or Antipater of Sidon; awitty Greek comedy adapted by Plautus to the brutal humour of Romefrom Swinburne's immortal _Atalanta in Calydon_. Twenty-five centuriesof history, Hellenic, Byzantine and modern, have gone to make thesmall band of cultivated Greeks of to-day what they are, two thousandand five hundred years of astounding vicissitudes, of aristocracy,democracy and despotism, of domination and subjection, mastery,slavery and revolution, ending in freedom more than half regained. Weneed not wonder why they are not like us, whose forefathers of a fewcenturies ago were still fighting the elements for their existence,and living and thinking like barbarians.

  The eyes of the Greek and the great artist met, and they looked longat one another in the shade of the elm-tree on the lawn, as the sunwas going down. Only a few minutes had passed since Margaret had beenvery angry, and had almost believed that she was going to quarrelfinally, and break her engagement, and be free; and now she could noteven turn her face away, and when her hand felt his upon it, she lethim draw it slowly to him; and half unconsciously she followed herhand, bending towards him sideways from her seat, nearer and nearer,and very near.

  And as she put up her lips to his, he would that she might drink hissoul from him at one deep draught--even as one of his people's poetswished, in the world's spring-time, long ago.

  It had been a strange love-making. They had been engaged during morethan two months, they were young, vital, passionate; yet they hadnever kissed before that evening hour under the elm-tree atVersailles. Perhaps it was for this that Konstantin had played, or atleast, for the certainty it meant to him, if he had doubted that shewas sincere.