Beyond the Rocks

At twelve o'clock punctually Lord Bracondale was ushered into Mrs.

McBride's sitting-room at the Ritz, the day after her dinner-party at

Armenonville. He expected she would not be ready to receive him for at

least half an hour; having said twelve he might have known she meant

half-past, but he was in a mood of impatience, and felt obliged to be

punctual.

He was suffering more or less from a reaction. He had begun towards

morning to realize the manner in which he had spent the evening was not

altogether wise. Not that he had the least intention of not repeating

his folly--indeed, he was where he was at this hour for no other purpose

than to enlist the widow's sympathy, and her co-operation in arranging

as many opportunities for similar evenings as together they could

devise.

After all, she only kept him waiting twenty minutes, and he had been

rather amused looking at the piles of bric-à-brac obsequious art dealers

had left for this rich lady's inspection.

A number of spurious bronzes warranted pure antique, clocks, brocades,

what not, lying about on all the available space.

"And I wonder what it will look like in her marble palace halls," he

thought, as he passed from one article to another.

"I am just too sorry to keep you, mon cher Bracondale," Mrs. McBride

said, presently, suddenly opening the adjoining door a few inches, "but

it is a quite exasperating hat which has delayed me. I can't get the

thing on at the angle I want. I--"

"Mayn't I come and help, dear lady?" interrupted Hector. "I know all

about the subject. I had to buy forty-seven at Monte Carlo, and see them

all tried on, too--and only lately! Do ask Marie to open that door a

little wider; I will decide in a minute how it should be."

"Insolent!" said the widow, who spoke French with perfect fluency and a

quite marvellously pure American accent. But she permitted the giggling

and beaming Marie to open the door wide, and let Hector advance and kiss

her hand.

He then took a chair by the dressing-table and inspected the situation.

Seven or eight dainty bandboxes strewed the floor, some of their

contents peeping from them--feathers, aigrettes, flowers, impossible

birds--all had their place, and on the sofa were three chef

d'oeuvres ruthlessly tossed aside. While in the widow's fair hands

was a gem of gray tulle and the most expensive feather heart of woman

could desire.

"You see," she said, plaintively, "it is meant to go just so," and she

placed it once more upon her head, a handsome head of forty-five, fresh

and well preserved and comely. "But the vile-tempered thing refuses to

stay there once I let go, and no pin will correct it."