he had no idea of the passionate response he was stirring in the motherless, neglected child – of what hunger he was carelessly stimulating, what latent qualities and dormant characteristics he was arousing.
Her appearance, one evening, in her night-dress at his studio doorway, accompanied by her three cats, began to enlighten him in regard to her mental starvation. Tremulous, almost at the point of tears, she had asked for a book and permission to remain for a few moments in the studio. He had rung for Selinda, ordered fruit, cake, and a glass of milk, and had installed Dulcie upon the sofa with a lapful of books. That was the beginning.
But Barres still did not entirely understand what particular magnet drew the child to his studio. The place was full of beautiful things, books, rugs, pictures, fine old furniture, cabinets glimmering with porcelains, ivories, jades, Chinese crystals. These all, in minutest detail, seemed to fascinate the girl. Yet, after giving her permission to enter whenever she desired, often 65 while reading or absorbed in other affairs, he became conscious of being watched; and, glancing up, would frequently surprise her sitting there very silently, with an open book on her knees, and her strange grey eyes intently fixed on him.
Then he would always smile and say something friendly; and usually forget her the next moment in his absorption of whatever work he had under way.
Only one other man inhabiting Dragon Court ever took the trouble to notice or speak to the child – James Westmore, the sculptor. And he was very friendly in his vigorous, jolly, rather boisterous way, catching her up and tossing her about as gaily and irresponsibly as though she were a rag doll; and always telling her he was her adopted godfather and would have to chastise her if she ever deserved it. Also, he was always urging her to hurry and grow up, because he had a wedding present for her. And though Dulcie’s smile was friendly, and Westmore’s nonsense pleased the shy child, she merely submitted, never made any advance.
Barres’s ménage was accomplished by two specimens of mankind, totally opposite in sex and colour; Selinda, a blonde, slant-eyed, and very trim Finn, doing duty as maid; and Aristocrates W. Johnson, lately employed in the capacity of waiter on a dining-car by the New York Central Railroad – tall, dignified, graceful, and Ethiopian – who cooked as daintily as a débutante trifling with culinary duty, and served at table with the languid condescension of a dilettante and wealthy amateur of domestic arts.
Barres ascended the two low, easy flights of stairs and unlocked his door. Aristocrates, setting the table 66 in the dining-room, approached gracefully and relieved his master of hat, coat, and stick.
Half an hour later, a bath and fresh linen keyed up his already lively spirits; he whistled while he tied his tie, took a critical look at himself, and, dropping both hands into the pockets of his dinner jacket, walked out into the big studio, which also was his living-room.
There was a piano there; he sat down and rattled off a rollicking air from the most recent spring production, beginning to realise that he was keyed up for something livelier than a solitary dinner at home.
His hands fell from the keys and he swung around on the piano stool and looked into the dining-room rather doubtfully.
“Aristocrates!” he called.
The tall pullman butler sauntered gracefully in.
Barres gave him a telephone number to call. Aristocrates returned presently with the information that the lady was not at home.
“All right. Try Amsterdam 6703. Ask for Miss Souval.”
But Miss Souval, also, was out.
Barres possessed a red-leather covered note-book; he went to his desk and got it; and under his direction Aristocrates called up several numbers, reporting adversely in every case.
It was a fine evening; ladies were abroad or preparing to fulfil engagements wisely made on such a day as this had been. And the more numbers he called up the lonelier the young man began to feel.
Thessalie had not given him either her address or telephone number. It would have been charming to have her dine with him. He was now thoroughly inclined for company. He glanced at the empty dining-room with aversion.
“All right; never mind,” he said, dismissing Aristocrates, who receded as lithely as though leading a cake-walk.
“The devil,” muttered the young fellow. “I’m not going to dine here alone. I’ve had too happy a day of it.”
He got up restlessly and began to pace the studio. He knew he could get some man, but he didn’t want one. However, it began to look like that or a solitary dinner.
So after a few more moments’ scowling cogitation he went out and down the stairs, with the vague idea of inviting some brother painter – any one of the regular irregulars who inhabited Dragon Court.
Dulcie sat behind the little desk near the door, head bowed, her thin hands clasped over the closed ledger, and in her pallid face the expressionless dullness of a child forgotten.
“Hello, Sweetness!” he said cheerfully.
She looked up; a slight colour tinted her cheeks, and she smiled.
“What’s the matter, Dulcie?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? That’s a very dreary malady – nothing. You look lonely. Are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know whether you are lonely or not?” he demanded.
“I suppose I am,” she ventured, with a shy smile.
“Where is your father?”
“He went out.”
“Any letters for me – or messages?”
“A man – he had one eye – came. He asked who you are.”
“What?”
“I think he was German. He had only one eye. He asked your name.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him. Then he went away.”
Barres shrugged:
“Somebody who wants to sell artists’ materials,” he concluded. Then he looked at the girl: “So you’re lonely, are you? Where are your three cats? Aren’t they company for you?”
“Yes…”
“Well, then,” he said gaily, “why not give a party for them? That ought to amuse you, Dulcie.”
The child still smiled; Barres walked on past her a pace or two, halted, turned irresolutely, arrived at some swift decision, and came back, suddenly understanding that he need seek no further – that he had discovered his guest of the evening at his very elbow.
“Did you and your father have your supper, Dulcie?”
“My father went out to eat at Grogan’s.”
“How about you?”
“I can find something.”
“Why not dine with me?” he suggested.
The
