knows enough at that," she confessed gaily. "Oh, if we were only up in the mountains now," she added.
"What mountains," he inquired curiously.
"The Blue Ridge. We have a bungalow up at Florizel. You must come up when we go there next summer."
"Will mamma be there?" he asked.
"And papa," she laughed.
"And I suppose Cousin Annie."
"No, brother George will be."
"Nix for the bungalow," he replied, using a slang word that had become immensely popular.
"Oh, but I know all the country round there. There are some lovely walks and drives." She said this archly, naïvely, suggestively, her bright face lit with an intelligence that seemed perfection.
"Well – such being the case!" he smiled, "and meanwhile – "
"Oh, meanwhile you just have to wait. You see how things are." She nodded her head towards an inside room where Mrs. Channing was lying down with a slight headache. "Mamma doesn't leave me very often."
Eugene did not know exactly how to take Christina. He had never encountered this attitude before. Her directness, in connection with so much talent, such real ability, rather took him by surprise. He did not expect it – did not think she would confess affection for him; did not know just what she meant by speaking in the way she did of the bungalow and Florizel. He was flattered, raised in his own self-esteem. If such a beautiful, talented creature as this could confess her love for him, what a personage he must be. And she was thinking of freer conditions – just what?
He did not want to press the matter too closely then and she was not anxious to have him do so – she preferred to be enigmatic. But there was a light of affection and admiration in her eye which made him very proud and happy with things just as they were.
As she said, there was little chance for love-making under conditions then existing. Her mother was with her most of the time. Christina invited Eugene to come and hear her sing at the Philharmonic Concerts; so once in a great ball-room at the Waldorf-Astoria and again in the imposing auditorium of Carnegie Hall and a third time in the splendid auditorium of the Arion Society, he had the pleasure of seeing her walk briskly to the footlights, the great orchestra waiting, the audience expectant, herself arch, assured – almost defiant, he thought, and so beautiful. When the great house thundered its applause he was basking in one delicious memory of her.
"Last night she had her arms about my neck. Tonight when I call and we are alone she will kiss me. That beautiful, distinguished creature standing there bowing and smiling loves me and no one else. If I were to ask her she would marry me – if I were in a position and had the means."
"If I were in a position – " that thought cut him, for he knew that he was not. He could not marry her. In reality she would not have him knowing how little he made – or would she? He wondered.
CHAPTER XXIII
Towards the end of spring Eugene concluded he would rather go up in the mountains near Christina's bungalow this summer, than back to see Angela. The memory of that precious creature was, under the stress and excitement of metropolitan life, becoming a little tarnished. His recollections of her were as delightful as ever, as redolent of beauty, but he was beginning to wonder. The smart crowd in New York was composed of a different type. Angela was sweet and lovely, but would she fit in?
Meanwhile Miriam Finch with her subtle eclecticism continued her education of Eugene. She was as good as a school. He would sit and listen to her descriptions of plays, her appreciation of books, her summing up of current philosophies, and he would almost feel himself growing. She knew so many people, could tell him where to go to see just such and such an important thing. All the startling personalities, the worth while preachers, the new actors, somehow she knew all about them.
"Now, Eugene," she would exclaim on seeing him, "you positively must go and see Haydon Boyd in 'The Signet,'" or – "see Elmina Deming in her new dances," or – "look at the pictures of Winslow Homer that are being shown at Knoedler's."
She would explain with exactness why she wanted him to see them, what she thought they would do for him. She frankly confessed to him that she considered him a genius and always insisted on knowing what new thing he was doing. When any work of his appeared and she liked it she was swift to tell him. He almost felt as if he owned her room and herself, as if all that she was – her ideas, her friends, her experiences – belonged to him. He could go and draw on them by sitting at her feet or going with her somewhere. When spring came she liked to walk with him, to listen to his comments on nature and life.
"That's splendid!" she would exclaim. "Now, why don't you write that?" or "why don't you paint that?"
He showed her some of his poems once and she had made copies of them and pasted them in a book of what she called exceptional things. So he was coddled by her.
In another way Christina was equally nice. She was fond of telling Eugene how much she thought of him, how nice she thought he was. "You're so big and smarty," she said to him once, affectionately, pinioning his arms and looking into his eyes. "I like the way you part your hair, too! You're kind o' like an artist ought to be!"
"That's the way to spoil me," he replied. "Let me tell you how nice you are. Want to know how nice you are?"
"Uh-uh," she smiled, shaking her head to mean "no."
"Wait till we get to the mountains. I'll tell you." He sealed her lips with his, holding her until her breath was almost gone.
"Oh," she exclaimed; "you're terrible. You're like steel."
"And you're like a big red rose. Kiss me!"
From Christina he learned all about the musical world and musical personalities. He gained an insight into the different forms of music, operatic, symphonic, instrumental. He learned of the different forms of composition, the terminology, the mystery of the vocal cords, the methods of training. He learned of the jealousies within the profession, and what the best musical authorities thought of such and such composers, or singers. He learned how difficult it was to gain a place in the operatic world, how bitterly singers fought each other, how quick the public was to desert a fading star. Christina took it all so unconcernedly that he almost loved her for her courage. She was so wise and so good natured.
"You have to give up a lot of things to be a good artist," she said to Eugene one day. "You can't have the ordinary life, and art too."
"Just what do you mean, Chrissy?" he asked, petting her hand, for they were alone together.
"Why, you can't get married very well and have children, and you can't do much in a social way. Oh, I know they do get married, but sometimes I think it is a mistake. Most of the singers I know don't do so very well tied down by marriage."
"Don't you intend to get married?" asked Eugene curiously.
"I don't know," she replied, realizing what he was driving at. "I'd want to think about that. A woman artist is in a d – of a position anyway," using the letter d only to indicate the word "devil." "She has so many things to think about."
"For instance?"
"Oh, what people think and her family think, and I don't know what all. They ought to get a new sex for artists – like they have for worker bees."
Eugene smiled. He knew what she was driving at. But he did not
