A woman issued forth, muffled in silks and light furs. She was followed by

another, quite possibly her maid. One may observe very well at times from

the corner of the eye; that is, objects at which one is not looking come

within the range of vision. The woman paused, her foot upon the step of

the modest limousine. She whispered something hurriedly into her

companion's ear, something evidently to the puzzlement of the latter, who

looked around irresolutely. She obeyed, however, and retreated to the

stage entrance. A man, quite as tall as Courtlandt, his face shaded

carefully, intentionally perhaps, by one of those soft Bavarian hats that

are worn successfully only by Germans, stepped out of the gathering to

proffer his assistance. Courtlandt pushed him aside calmly, lifted his

hat, and smiling ironically, closed the door behind the singer. The step

which the other man made toward Courtlandt was unequivocal in its meaning.

But even as Courtlandt squared himself to meet the coming outburst, the

stranger paused, shrugged his shoulders, turned and made off.

The lady in the limousine--very pale could any have looked closely into

her face--was whirled away into the night. Courtlandt did not stir from

the curb. The limousine dwindled, once it flashed under a light, and then

vanished.

"It is the American," said one of the waiting dandies.

"The icicle!"

"The volcano, rather, which fools believe extinct."

"Probably sent back her maid for her Bible. Ah, these Americans; they are

very amusing."

"She was in magnificent voice to-night. I wonder why she never sings

Carmen?"

"Have I not said that she is too cold? What! would you see frost grow upon

the toreador's mustache? And what a name, what a name! Eleonora da

Toscana!"

Courtlandt was not in the most amiable condition of mind, and a hint of

the ribald would have instantly transformed a passive anger into a blind

fury. Thus, a scene hung precariously; but its potentialities became as

nothing on the appearance of another woman.

This woman was richly dressed, too richly. Apparently she had trusted her

modiste not wisely but too well: there was the strange and unaccountable

inherent love of fine feathers and warm colors which is invariably the

mute utterance of peasant blood. She was followed by a Russian, huge of

body, Jovian of countenance. An expensive car rolled up to the curb. A

liveried footman jumped down from beside the chauffeur and opened the

door. The diva turned her head this way and that, a thin smile of

satisfaction stirring her lips. For Flora Desimone loved the human eye

whenever it stared admiration into her own; and she spent half her days

setting traps and lures, rather successfully. She and her formidable

escort got into the car which immediately went away with a soft purring

sound. There was breeding in the engine, anyhow, thought Courtlandt, who

longed to put his strong fingers around that luxurious throat which had,

but a second gone, passed him so closely.




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