the world, could see on the big sofa during the gatherings in
Allegre's
exclusive Pavilion: the Dona Rita of their respectful
addresses,
manifest and
mysterious, like an object of art from some
unknown period; the Dona Rita of the initiated Paris. Dona Rita
and nothing more -
unique and indefinable." He stopped with a
disagreeable smile.
"And of
peasant stock?" I exclaimed in the
strangelyconscioussilence that fell between Mills and Blunt.
"Oh! All these Basques have been ennobled by Don Sanche II," said
Captain Blunt moodily. "You see coats of arms carved over the
doorways of the most
miserable caserios. As far as that goes she's
Dona Rita right enough
whatever else she is or is not in herself or
in the eyes of others. In your eyes, for
instance, Mills. Eh?"
For a time Mills
preserved that
conscious silence.
"Why think about it at all?" he murmured
coldly at last. "A
strange bird is hatched sometimes in a nest in an un
accountable way
and then the fate of such a bird is bound to be ill-defined,
uncertain,
questionable. And so that is how Henry Allegre saw her
first? And what happened next?"
"What happened next?"
repeated Mr. Blunt, with an
affected surprise
in his tone. "Is it necessary to ask that question? If you had
asked HOW the next happened. . . But as you may imagine she hasn't
told me anything about that. She didn't," he continued with polite
sarcasm, "enlarge upon the facts. That confounded Allegre, with
his impudent
assumption of
princely airs, must have (I shouldn't
wonder) made the fact of his notice appear as a sort of favour
dropped from Olympus. I really can't tell how the minds and the
imaginations of such aunts and uncles are
affected by such rare
visitations. Mythology may give us a hint. There is the story of
Danae, for
instance."
"There is," remarked Mills
calmly, "but I don't remember any aunt
or uncle in that connection."
"And there are also certain stories of the discovery and
acquisition of some
unique objects of art. The sly approaches, the
astute negotiations, the lying and the circumventing . . . for the
love of beauty, you know."
With his dark face and with the
perpetual smiles playing about his
grimness, Mr. Blunt appeared to me
positively satanic. Mills' hand
was toying
absently with an empty glass. Again they had forgotten
my
existence altogether.
"I don't know how an object of art would feel," went on Blunt, in
an
unexpectedlygrating voice, which, however, recovered its tone
immediately. "I don't know. But I do know that Rita herself was
not a Danae, never, not at any time of her life. She didn't mind
the holes in her
stockings. She wouldn't mind holes in her
stockings now. . . That is if she manages to keep any
stockings at
all," he added, with a sort of suppressed fury so funnily
unexpected that I would have burst into a laugh if I hadn't been
lost in
astonishment of the simplest kind.
"No - really!" There was a flash of interest from the quiet Mills.
"Yes, really," Blunt nodded and knitted his brows very devilishly
indeed. "She may yet be left without a single pair of
stockings."
"The world's a thief," declared Mills, with the
utmost composure.
"It wouldn't mind robbing a
lonely traveller."
"He is so subtle." Blunt remembered my
existence for the purpose
of that remark and as usual it made me very
uncomfortable.
"Perfectly true. A
lonely traveller. They are all in the scramble
from the lowest to the highest. Heavens! What a gang! There was
even an Archbishop in it."
"Vous plaisantez," said Mills, but without any marked show of
incredulity.
"I joke very seldom," Blunt protested
earnestly. "That's why I
haven't mentioned His Majesty - whom God
preserve. That would have
been an
exaggeration. . . However, the end is not yet. We were