His Own People | Page 9

let you play. So for my frien's when they come to my house--if they wish it, there is that foolish little table. I fear"--she concluded with a bewitching affectation of sadness--"they prefer that to talkin' wiz me."
"You know that couldn't be so, ~Comtesse~," he said. "I would rather talk to you than--than--"
"Ah, yes, you say so, Monsieur!" She looked at him gravely; a little sigh seemed to breathe upon her lips; she leaned forward nearer the fire, her face wistful in the thin, rosy light, and it seemed to him he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.
He came across to her and sat upon a stool at her feet. "On my soul," he began huskily, "I swear--"
She laid her finger on her lips, shaking her head gently; and he was silent, while the intelligent maid--at that moment entering --arranged a tea-table and departed.
"American an' Russian, they are the worse," said the Countess thoughtfully, as she served him with a generous cup, laced with rum, "but the American he is the bes' to play wiz." Mellin found her irresistible when she said "wiz."
"Why is that?"
"Oh, the Russian play high, yes--but the American"--she laughed delightedly and stretched her arms wide--"he make' it all a joke! He is beeg like his beeg country. If he win or lose, he don' care! Ah, I mus' tell you of my great American frien', that Honor-able Chanlair Pedlow, who is comin' to Rome. You have heard of Honor-able Chanlair Pedlow in America?"
"I remember hearing that name."
"Ah, I shall make you know him. He is a man of distinction; he did sit in your Chamber of Deputies--what you call it?--yes, your Con-gress. He is funny, eccentric--always he roar like a lion --Boum!--but so simple, so good, a man of such fine heart--so lovable!"
"1'll be glad to meet him," said Mellin coldly.
"An', oh, yes, I almos' forget to tell you," she went on, "your frien', that dear Cooley, he is on his way from Monte Carlo in his automobile. I have a note from him to-day."
"Good sort of fellow, little Cooley, in his way," remarked her companion graciously. "Not especially intellectual or that, you know. His father was a manufacturer chap, I believe, or something of the sort. I suppose you saw a lot of him in Paris?"
"Eh, I thought he is dead!" cried Madame de Vaurigard.
"The father is. I mean, little Cooley."
"Oh, yes," she laughed softly. "We had some gay times, a little party of us. We shall be happy here, too; you will see. I mus' make a little dinner very soon, but not unless you will come. You will?"
"Do you want me very much?"
He placed his empty cup on the table and leaned closer to her, smiling. She did not smile in response; instead, her eyes fell and there was the faintest, pathetic quiver of her lower lip.
"Already you know that," she said in a low voice.
She rose quickly, turned away from him and walked across the room to the curtains which opened upon the hall. One of these she drew back.
"My frien', you mus' go now," she said in the same low voice. "To-morrow I will see you again. Come at four an' you shall drive with me--but not--not more--now. Please!"
She stood waiting, not looking at him, but with head bent and eyes veiled. As he came near she put out a limp hand. He held it for a few seconds of distinctly emotional silence, then strode swiftly into the hall.
She immediately let the curtain fall behind him, and as he got his hat and coat he heard her catch her breath sharply with a sound like a little sob.
Dazed with glory, he returned to the hotel. In the lobby he approached the glittering concierge and said firmly:
"What is the Salone Margherita? Cam you get me a box there to-night?"

IV. Good Fellowship
He confessed his wickedness to Madame de Vaurigard the next afternoon as they drove out the Appian Way. "A fellow must have just a bit of a fling, you know," he said; "and, really, Salone Margherita isn't so tremendously wicked."
She shook her head at him in friendly raillery. "Ah, that may be; but how many of those little dancing-girl' have you invite to supper afterward?"
This was a delicious accusation, and though he shook his head in virtuous denial he was before long almost convinced that he had given a rather dashing supper after the vaudeville and had not gone quietly back to the hotel, only stopping by the way to purchase an orange and a pocketful of horse-chestnuts to eat in his room.
It was a happy drive for Robert Russ Mellin, though not happier than that of the next day. Three afternoons they spent driving over the Campagna, then back to Madame de Vaurigard's apartment for tea by the firelight,