you met her?" And then, across the table, "Rita – you haven't met Mr. Wray – Mrs. Cheyne."
CHAPTER VI
MRS. CHEYNE
Over the coffee, curiously enough, there seemed to be a disposition to refrain from market quotations, for General Bent skilfully directed the conversation into other channels – motoring – aviation – the Horse Show – the newest pictures in the Metropolitan – and Jeff listened avidly, newly alive to the interests of these people, who, as Mrs. Rumsen had said, above Twenty-third Street took on a personality which was not to be confounded with the life downtown, where he had first met them. When Curtis Janney asked him if he rode, Jeff only laughed.
"Oh, yes, of course you do. One doesn't punch cattle for nothing. But jumping is different – and then there's the saddle – "
"Oh, I think I can stay on without going for the leather. Anyway, I'd like to try."
"Right-o!" said Janney heartily. "We've had one run already – a drag. Couldn't you and Mrs. Wray come out soon? We're having a few people for the hunt week after next. There will be Cortland Bent, Jack Perot, the Rumsens, the Billy Havilands, Mrs. Cheyne, the Baroness and – if you'll come along – yourselves."
"Delighted. I'm sure Camilla will be glad to accept. We haven't many engagements."
"I think you've hidden your wife long enough, Mr. Wray. Does she ride, too?"
"Like a breeze – astride. But she wouldn't know what to do on a side-saddle."
"I don't blame her. Some of our women ride across. Gladys, Gretchen, Mrs. Cheyne – "
"Well," Jeff silently raised his brandy glass in imitation of his companion, "I'm glad there are a few horses somewhere around here – I haven't seen any outside of the shafts of a hansom since I left the West."
"The horse would soon be extinct if it wasn't for Curtis Janney," put in the General breezily. "Why, he won't even own a motor. No snorting devils for him. Might give his horses the pip or something. The stable is worth seeing, though. You're going, aren't you, Wray?"
In the library, later, Wray found Mrs. Cheyne. Until he had come to New York Wray's idea of a woman had never strayed from Camilla. There were other females in the Valley, and he had known some of them, but Camilla had made any comparison unfortunate. She was a being living in a sphere apart, with which mere clay had nothing in common. He had always thought of her as he thought of the rare plants in Jim Noakes' conservatory in Denver, flowers to be carefully nurtured and admired. Even marriage had made little difference in his point of view. It is curious that he thought of these things when he leaned over Mrs. Cheyne. To his casual eye this new acquaintance possessed many of the characteristics of his wife. Perhaps even more than Camilla she represented a mental life of which he knew nothing, contributed more than her share to the sublimated atmosphere in which he found himself moving. They might have been grown in the same conservatory, but, if Camilla was the Orchid, Mrs. Cheyne was the Poinsettia flower. And yet she was not beautiful as Camilla was. Her features, taken one at a time, were singularly imperfect. He was almost ready to admit that she wasn't even strikingly pretty. But as he looked at her he realized for the first time in his life the curious fact that a woman need not be beautiful to be attractive. He saw that she was colorful and unusually shapely, and that she gave forth a flow of magnetism which her air of ennui made every effort to deny. Her eyes, like her hair, were brown, but the pupils, when she lifted her lids high enough to show them, were so large that they seemed much darker. Her dinner dress, cut straight across her shoulders, was of black, like the jewelled bandeau in her hair and the pearls which depended from her ears. These ornaments, together with the peculiar dressing of her hair, gave her well-formed head an effect which, if done in brighter hues, might have been barbaric, but which, in the subdued tones of her color scheme, only added to the impression of sombre distinction.
As he approached, she looked up at him sleepily.
"I thought you were never coming," she said.
"Did you?" said Wray, bewildered. "I – I came as soon as I could, Mrs. Cheyne. We had our cigars – "
"Oh, I know. Men have always been selfish – they always will be selfish. Cousin Cornelius is provincial to herd the men and women – like sheep – the ones in one pen, the others in another. There isn't a salon in Europe – a real salon – where the women may not smoke if they like."
"You want to smoke – "
"I'm famished – but the General doesn't approve – "
Wray had taken out his cigarette case. "Couldn't we find a spot?"
She rose and led the way through a short corridor to the conservatory, where they found a stone bench under a palm.
He offered her his case, and she lit the cigarette daintily, holding it by the very tips of her fingers, and steadying her hand against his own as Wray would have done with a man's. Wray did not speak. He watched her amusedly, aware of the extraordinary interest with which she invested his pet vice.
"Thanks," she said gratefully. Turning toward him then, she lowered her chin, opened her eyes, and looked straight into his.
"You know, you didn't come to me nearly as soon as I thought you would."
"I – I didn't know – "
"You should have known."
"Why should I – ?"
"Because I wanted you to."
"I'm glad you wanted me. I think I'd have come anyway."
She smiled approvingly.
"Then my efforts were unnecessary."
"Your efforts?"
"Yes, I willed it. You interested me, you see."
He looked at her quickly. Her eyes only closed sleepily, then opened again.
"I'm lucky," he said, "that's sure."
"How do you know? I may not be at all the kind of person you think I am."
"I'll take a chance on that – but I wish you'd tell me what made you want me."
"I was bored. I usually am. The Bent parties are so formal and tiresome. Everybody always says the same things – does the same things." She sighed deeply. "If Cousin Cornelius saw me now I'd be in disgrace. I wonder why I always like to do the things people don't expect me to."
"You wouldn't be much of a woman if you didn't," he laughed. "But I like surprises. There wouldn't be much in life if you knew what was going to happen every minute."
"You didn't think I was going to happen then?"
"Er – no. Maybe I hoped so."
"Well," she smiled, "I have happened. What are you going to do about it?"
"Be thankful – mostly. You seem sort of human, somehow. You do what you want to – say what you want – "
"And if I don't get what I want, ask for it," she laughed. "I told Gladys it was very inconsiderate of her not to send you in to dinner with me. She's always doing that sort of thing. Gladys lacks a sense of proportion. As it is, the evening is almost gone, and we've only begun."
"I
