in the beauty of the Baroness Münster; she had expected her, for mysterious reasons, to resemble a very pretty portrait of the Empress Josephine, of which there hung an engraving in one of the parlors, and which the younger Miss Wentworth had always greatly admired. But the Baroness was not at all like that—not at all. Though different, however, she was very wonderful, and Gertrude felt herself most suggestively corrected. It was strange, nevertheless, that Felix should speak in that positive way about his sister’s beauty. “I think I shall think her handsome,” Gertrude said. “It must be very interesting to know her. I don’t feel as if I ever could.”
“Ah, you will know her well; you will become great friends,” Felix declared, as if this were the easiest thing in the world.
“She is very graceful,” said Gertrude, looking after the Baroness, suspended to her father’s arm. It was a pleasure to her to say that anyone was graceful.
Felix had been looking about him. “And your little cousin, of yesterday,” he said, “who was so wonderfully pretty—what has become of her?”
“She is in the parlor,” Gertrude answered. “Yes, she is very pretty.” She felt as if it were her duty to take him straight into the house, to where he might be near her cousin. But after hesitating a moment she lingered still. “I didn’t believe you would come back,” she said.
“Not come back!” cried Felix, laughing. “You didn’t know, then, the impression made upon this susceptible heart of mine.”
She wondered whether he meant the impression her cousin Lizzie had made. “Well,” she said, “I didn’t think we should ever see you again.”
“And pray what did you think would become of me?”
“I don’t know. I thought you would melt away.”
“That’s a compliment to my solidity! I melt very often,” said Felix, “but there is always something left of me.”
“I came and waited for you by the door, because the others did,” Gertrude went on. “But if you had never appeared I should not have been surprised.”
“I hope,” declared Felix, looking at her, “that you would have been disappointed.”
She looked at him a little, and shook her head. “No—no!”
“Ah, par exemple!” cried the young man. “You deserve that I should never leave you.”
Going into the parlor they found Mr. Wentworth performing introductions. A young man was standing before the Baroness, blushing a good deal, laughing a little, and shifting his weight from one foot to the other—a slim, mild-faced young man, with neatly-arranged features, like those of Mr. Wentworth. Two other gentlemen, behind him, had risen from their seats, and a little apart, near one of the windows, stood a remarkably pretty young girl. The young girl was knitting a stocking; but, while her fingers quickly moved, she looked with wide, brilliant eyes at the Baroness.
“And what is your son’s name?” said Eugenia, smiling at the young man.
“My name is Clifford Wentworth, ma’am,” he said in a tremulous voice.
“Why didn’t you come out to meet me, Mr. Clifford Wentworth?” the Baroness demanded, with her beautiful smile.
“I didn’t think you would want me,” said the young man, slowly sidling about.
“One always wants a beau cousin,—if one has one! But if you are very nice to me in future I won’t remember it against you.” And Madame Münster transferred her smile to the other persons present. It rested first upon the candid countenance and long-skirted figure of Mr. Brand, whose eyes were intently fixed upon Mr. Wentworth, as if to beg him not to prolong an anomalous situation. Mr. Wentworth pronounced his name. Eugenia gave him a very charming glance, and then looked at the other gentleman.
This latter personage was a man of rather less than the usual stature and the usual weight, with a quick, observant, agreeable dark eye, a small quantity of thin dark hair, and a small moustache. He had been standing with his hands in his pockets; and when Eugenia looked at him he took them out. But he did not, like Mr. Brand, look evasively and urgently at their host. He met Eugenia’s eyes; he appeared to appreciate the privilege of meeting them. Madame Münster instantly felt that he was, intrinsically, the most important person present. She was not unconscious that this impression was in some degree manifested in the little sympathetic nod with which she acknowledged Mr. Wentworth’s announcement, “My cousin, Mr. Acton!”
“Your cousin—not mine?” said the Baroness.
“It only depends upon you,” Mr. Acton declared, laughing.
The Baroness looked at him a moment, and noticed that he had very white teeth. “Let it depend upon your behavior,” she said. “I think I had better wait. I have cousins enough. Unless I can also claim relationship,” she added, “with that charming young lady,” and she pointed to the young girl at the window.
“That’s my sister,” said Mr. Acton. And Gertrude Wentworth put her arm round the young girl and led her forward. It was not, apparently, that she needed much leading. She came toward the Baroness with a light, quick step, and with perfect self-possession, rolling her stocking round its needles. She had dark blue eyes and dark brown hair; she was wonderfully pretty.
Eugenia kissed her, as she had kissed the other young women, and then held her off a little, looking at her. “Now this is quite another type,” she said; she pronounced the word in the French manner. “This is a different outline, my uncle, a different character, from that of your own daughters. This, Felix,” she went on, “is very much more what we have always thought of as the American type.”
The young girl, during this exposition, was smiling askance at everyone in turn, and at Felix out of turn. “I find only one type here!” cried Felix, laughing. “The type adorable!”
This sally was received in perfect silence, but Felix, who learned all things quickly, had already learned that the silences frequently observed among his new acquaintances were not necessarily restrictive or resentful. It was, as one might say, the silence of expectation, of modesty. They were all standing round his sister, as if they were expecting her to acquit herself of the exhibition of some peculiar faculty, some brilliant talent. Their attitude seemed to imply that she was a kind of conversational mountebank, attired, intellectually, in gauze and spangles. This attitude gave a certain ironical force to Madame Münster’s next words. “Now this is your circle,” she said to her uncle. “This is your salon. These are your regular habitués, eh? I am so glad to see you all together.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Wentworth, “they are always dropping in and out. You must do the same.”
“Father,” interposed Charlotte Wentworth, “they must do something more.” And she turned her sweet, serious face, that seemed at once timid and placid, upon their interesting visitor. “What is your name?” she asked.
“Eugenia-Camilla-Dolores,” said the Baroness, smiling. “But you needn’t say all that.”
“I will say Eugenia, if you will let me. You must come and stay with us.”
The Baroness laid her hand upon Charlotte’s arm very tenderly; but she reserved herself. She was wondering whether it would be possible to “stay” with these people. “It would be very charming—very charming,” she said; and her eyes wandered over the company, over the room. She wished to gain time before committing
