half turned to her, as with a vague gesture of recognition. But just then the curtain rose, and she became absorbed in the development of the drama, especially as it tended to display the remarkable toilets which succeeded each other on the person of its leading lady. Undine, seated at Ralph Marvell’s side, and feeling the thrill of his proximity as a subtler element in the general interest she was exciting, was at last repaid for the disappointment of her evening at the opera. It was characteristic of her that she remembered her failures as keenly as her triumphs, and that the passionate desire to obliterate, to “get even” with them, was always among the latent incentives of her conduct. Now at last she was having what she wanted—she was in conscious possession of the “real thing”; and through her other, diffused, sensations Ralph’s adoration gave her such a last refinement of pleasure as might have come to some warrior Queen borne in triumph by captive princes, and reading in the eyes of one the passion he dared not speak. When the curtain fell this vague enjoyment was heightened by various acts of recognition. All the people she wanted to “go with,” as they said in Apex, seemed to be about her in the stalls and boxes; and her eyes continued to revert with special satisfaction to the incongruous group formed by Mrs. Peter Van Degen and Miss Ray. The sight made it irresistible to whisper to Ralph: “You ought to go round and talk to your cousin. Have you told her we’re engaged?”
“Clare? of course. She’s going to call on you tomorrow.”
“Oh, she needn’t put herself out—she’s never been yet,” said Undine loftily.
He made no rejoinder, but presently asked: “Who’s that you’re waving to?”
“Mr. Popple. He’s coming round to see us. You know he wants to paint me.” Undine fluttered and beamed as the brilliant Popple made his way across the stalls to the seat which her neighbour had momentarily left.
“First-rate chap next to you—whoever he is—to give me this chance,” the artist declared. “Ha, Ralph, my boy, how did you pull it off? That’s what we’re all of us wondering.” He leaned over to give Marvell’s hand the ironic grasp of celibacy. “Well, you’ve left us lamenting: he has, you know. Miss Spragg. But I’ve got one pull over the others—I can paint you! He can’t forbid that, can he? Not before marriage, anyhow!”
Undine divided her shining glances between the two. “I guess he isn’t going to treat me any different afterward,” she proclaimed with joyous defiance.
“Ah, well, there’s no telling, you know. Hadn’t we better begin at once? Seriously, I want awfully to get you into the spring show.”
“Oh, really? That would be too lovely!”
“YOU would be, certainly—the way I mean to do you. But I see Ralph getting glum. Cheer up, my dear fellow; I daresay you’ll be invited to some of the sittings—that’s for Miss Spragg to say.—Ah, here comes your neighbour back, confound him—You’ll let me know when we can begin?”
As Popple moved away Undine turned eagerly to Marvell. “Do you suppose there’s time? I’d love to have him to do me!”
Ralph smiled. “My poor child—he WOULD ‘do’ you, with a vengeance. Infernal cheek, his asking you to sit—”
She stared. “But why? He’s painted your cousin, and all the smart women.”
“Oh, if a ‘smart’ portrait’s all you want!”
“I want what the others want,” she answered, frowning and pouting a little. She was already beginning to resent in Ralph the slightest sign of resistance to her pleasure; and her resentment took the form—a familiar one in Apex courtships—of turning on him, in the next entr’acte, a deliberately averted shoulder. The result of this was to bring her, for the first time, in more direct relation to her other neighbour. As she turned he turned too, showing her, above a shining shirt-front fastened with a large imitation pearl, a ruddy plump snub face without an angle in it, which yet looked sharper than a razor. Undine’s eyes met his with a startled look, and for a long moment they remained suspended on each other’s stare.
Undine at length shrank back with an unrecognizing face; but her movement made her opera-glass slip to the floor, and her neighbour bent down and picked it up.
“Well—don’t you know me yet?” he said with a slight smile, as he restored the glass to her.
She had grown white to the lips, and when she tried to speak the effort produced only a faint click in her throat. She felt that the change in her appearance must be visible, and the dread of letting Marvell see it made her continue to turn her ravaged face to her other neighbour. The round black eyes set prominently in the latter’s round glossy countenance had expressed at first only an impersonal and slightly ironic interest; but a look of surprise grew in them as Undine’s silence continued.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you want me to speak to you?”
She became aware that Marvell, as if unconscious of her slight show of displeasure, had left his seat, and was making his way toward the aisle; and this assertion of independence, which a moment before she would so deeply have resented, now gave her a feeling of intense relief.
“No—don’t speak to me, please. I’ll tell you another time—I’ll write.” Her neighbour continued to gaze at her, forming his lips into a noiseless whistle under his small dark moustache.
“Well, I—That’s about the stiffest,” he murmured; and as she made no answer he added: “Afraid I’ll ask to be introduced to your friend?”
She made a faint movement of entreaty. “I can’t explain. I promise to see you; but I ASK you not to talk to me now.”
He unfolded his programme, and went on speaking in a low tone while he affected to study it. “Anything to oblige, of course. That’s always been my motto. But is it a bargain—fair and square? You’ll see me?”
She receded farther from him. “I promise. I—I WANT to,” she faltered.
“All right, then. Call me up in the morning at the Driscoll Building. Seven-o-nine—got it?”
She nodded, and he added in a still lower tone: “I suppose I can congratulate you, anyhow?” and then, without waiting for her reply, turned to study Mrs. Van Degen’s box through his opera-glass. Clare, as if aware of the scrutiny fixed on her from below leaned back and threw a question over her shoulder to Ralph Marvell, who had just seated himself behind her.
“Who’s the funny man with the red face talking to Miss Spragg?”
Ralph bent forward. “The man next to her? Never saw him before. But I think you’re mistaken: she’s not speaking to him.”
“She WAS—Wasn’t she, Harriet?”
Miss Ray pinched her lips together without speaking, and Mrs. Van Degen paused for the fraction of a second. “Perhaps he’s an Apex friend,” she then suggested.
“Very likely. Only I think she’d have introduced him if he had been.”
His cousin faintly shrugged. “Shall you encourage that?”
Peter Van Degen, who had strayed into his wife’s box for a moment, caught the colloquy, and lifted his opera-glass.
“The fellow next to Miss Spragg? (By George, Ralph, she’s ripping tonight!) Wait a minute—I know
