# Whitewash/Chapter 2
### CHAPTER II.

"MONDAY," said Victoria, as she tore the Sunday slip from the calendar. "Let's see what it says. 'Lives of great men all remind us'—oh, dear, why will they supply us with such antique quotations?"
"I shall compose a cynic's calendar," said Mrs. Durham, from her desk. "A little thing with quotations from well-known philosophers, notably Voltaire and Carlyle."
"Dyspeptic's calendar would be better," volunteered Miss Claudel. "I'll contribute a proverb. 'It's a strong head that hath no turning.'"
"Oh," said Mrs. Durham, presently, "wouldn't you like to go over to Madame Despard's studio this afternoon? She has one of her 'at homes.' They are very curious and wholly instructive. ​It is the cream of what society thinks is Bohemia, an exhibition of genuine Angoras. No man admitted to the inner circle unless his ambrosial locks sweep his collar—the collar generally needs it badly. I go constantly. It's a morbid craving, but I can't control it."
Victoria discovered a box of chocolates and fell on them voraciously. "My dear, I've seen such a lot of foolishness in the Paris studios that I must beg to be excused."
Mrs. Durham left her desk and came across to the seductive sweets. "No, you never saw anything like this," she insisted, "it has to be seen to be believed. It is a collection of creatures impossible in any other society but the great, gullible American beau monde. Nowhere else would such a delightful aggregation of side-show freaks be taken seriously. I love them, I am filled with a fiendish glee whenever I go. It's like living in a farce comedy. You'd better come."
"All right," Victoria assented. "How does one dress?"
"Soulfully. Soul is the key-note of these ​meetings. If you have anything in the way of a 'poem,' wear it. The Despard always wears a 'poem.' The last was a sonnet in solferino."
"I have a ballad in blue, I think, but it's in the bottom of my trunk," Victoria suggested. "I might wear a very short golf skirt, and go as a quatrain; I have been told my feet were correct."
"I," said Mrs. Durham, "will disport my usual 'lines' in a lavender with lace refrain. Mr. Theodore Trent Gore told me last time it reminded him of Beethoven's second symphony."
"Who's the gentleman?"
"What! you don t know the American Mallarmé? the Maeterlinckean symbolist of the New World?"
"Alas! no!"
"Nor Stephen McKenzie, who publishes The Voice, nor Miss Red, who does terpsichorean-turns-for-the-first-families-only? Oh, my dear, my dear! put on the ballad in blue, and come at once! You can't be too early or stay too late in your pitiable state of ignorance!"
Victoria obediently disappeared into the depths ​of a voluminous trunk. For a moment the air was thick with flying vesture as she dug diligently—much as a fox-terrier widens a woodchuck hole. She emerged with a gown, and held it up for inspection.
Mrs. Durham nodded. "Very good. Hurry up now and get beautiful."
"You're very slangy for a literary light," her friend observed, as she began a leisurely unhooking.
A half-hour skilfully employed produced two very striking chefs d'œuvres,—Mrs. Durham, pretty, slender, and blonde; Victoria, handsome, wholesome, and richly brunette. They stepped into the empty resonant corridor, and, after threading many devious mazes, emerged into a vestibule from which three doors opened. They were all ajar, and from beyond emanated a buzz of conversation and a chink of glasses. Mrs. Durham took the lead, and, pushing aside the bamboo curtains, they entered a large room, half drawing-room, half studio. The upper half, lighted by an immense glass window, covering nearly the whole wall space, was more or less ​furnished by easels, paint-brushes in ginger jars, bespattered palettes, and scraps of drapery. The lower half of the apartment offered a not ill-disposed assortment of the conventional bibelots of the cultivated collector. A colored plaster cast of the "Unknown Lady," and a reproduction of the "Téte de Cire" attributed to Raphael, stood on Florentine brackets above the heavy Empire writing-desk of vast proportions. Everywhere hung sketches, mostly unframed and bearing well-known signatures. A collection of Japanese prints in gray "passepartouts" came next to the door opening into the adjoining room, and above the grand piano hung a dozen or more framed photographs of celebrities, all signed and bearing more or less complimentary remarks concerning their dear and admired Madame Despard. To any one unaquainted with the habits of celebrities, this array was vastly impressive, but it is such an easy way to repay attentions, that—well, why rob Madame Despard of her greatest glory?
The details of the place only impressed Victoria when she had leisure to observe, as every​thing to a height of six feet was obscured by the weaving, elbowing, chattering crowd that filled the room, a kaleidoscope of all feminine textures and hues, plentifully besprinkled with the sober colors of the male visitors, for the hostess prided herself that men were never lacking for her "at homes." Mrs. Durham darted between the entering groups like a busy shuttle in the animated web, and seized on the attention of a weary-eyed woman draped in a Spanish shawl.
"Dear madame," she cried, "as wonderful as ever—but you are all so wonderful. I have brought my very dear friend, Miss Claudel. She is of the elect."
The hostess enveloped the newcomer in an intent, thoughtful gaze. "Such words of praise from you, dear Muse, more than ensure her sisterhood among us. Miss Claudel, we are a little circle of souls tightly drawn to one another by the bonds of the mind and heart. Our welcome is sincere. Carl!" she called, dolorously. A long-haired gentleman in 1830 costume rose from his reclining position over the grand piano, and advanced with Delsartean grace. "Carl, our dear ​Muse has brought one of the elect, Miss Claudel. Find her a comfortable corner and supply her needs."
Mrs. Durham instantly fell into the hands of a tall blond soul, with wistful eyes, and force was for Victoria, feeling much confused, to follow the lead of the 1830 apparition. Escorted to a cushioned divan under an Oriental canopy, she settled herself and gazed about her with such evident interest, that her companion divined her curiosity.
"Do you see the two men by the window—the one with the Jove-like head, that's Hartly, the poet, who wrote the 'Songs of Satan;' a charming fellow. The man he's talking to is a fellow named Brown. Does skits and foolish things for the 'Lambs' Club.' I never could understand why he is tolerated here. I have a feeling whenever I see him that he does not appreciate the spirit of our gatherings. There is an ironic levity about him that hurts me. But I must not malign him to you, as he is a great friend of our dear Muse. They always sit to​gether at these gatherings and they seem to enjoy each other vastly."
Victoria longed secretly for the foolish Brown, whom she began to suspect of a sense of humor, but dared not voice her desire.
"The lady with the marabouts is the Baroness Corolla," her Virgil continued, "formerly 'Mlle. Zulie,' the chanteuse eccentrique. She wasn't much of a chanteuse, I hear, but she excelled in the eccentrique. The thick-set man? Oh, yes, that's Melville, the music critic. His divorce has just been granted; we all expect he will marry the lady over there in black with the white roses. She's Marion Delplain, the singer, and quite his affinity. That's his wife over there in sables and blue velvet—oh, dear, yes, they are great friends. He's a political economist. The slim girl? That is Miss Red, my sister."
"The lady who dances so wonderfully?" asked Victoria. "I have heard of her."
"Indeed? She will be glad. I recite for her while she poses—little things of my own, suggested by the music."
​"Really? How I should love to be present sometime."
"Perhaps," and he smiled kindly, "we may give some little trifle this afternoon—we are all under tribute here. In madame's salon one can not do less than give freely of one's gifts. These are gatherings of the inner circle, few are admitted who are not vouched for, even as your friend presented you."
"And yet," said Victoria, "I see Miss Trevor and Miss Berkley—are they of the circle?"
"Patrons of ours," Mr. Red loftily allowed. "Horace must invite Mæcenas. My sister dances at their houses next week."
"And the stout man in the corner?"
"Once again Maecenas; he is Mr. Gustell, the publisher. He has brought out a number of us in book form, both by picture and print. S—h, we must not speak while Herr Balder plays; nothing so annoys the sensitives."
Silence fell upon the assembly as a stout little man, with speaking black eyes, seated himself at the piano, swept the audience with a dreamy glance, and fixed his gaze suddenly on Victoria. ​He struck a few preliminary chords, got up, whirled the piano-stool, and began to play Viennese waltzes of languorous swing.
Victoria, thus selected as object of the serenade, became embarrassed and uncomfortable, but Mr. Red was delighted that his companion should be thus singled out. In defiance of the feelings of the "sensitives," he whispered:
"It's an open secret that Herr Balder always dedicates his work to the most beautiful woman present. You should feel flattered."
It was on Victoria's tongue to call the custom a piece of impertinence, but she reflected upon the Romans and their habits and the duties of visitors at that capital. The humor of it struck her, and despite her efforts, she smiled, a lapse that had the effect of doubling the attentions of the genius, who fairly made love to his keyboard proxy.
At the conclusion of the performance there was no applause, "Just as there should be no prizes in such a gathering," Mr. Red explained; but from various corners affected souls rushed forward to present their appreciations.
The little pianist bowed stiffly, with a gentle, ​fatuous smile on his round face, and turning to Madame Despard, evidently asked for an introduction to Victoria. They both turned toward her and advanced hand in hand. The hostess, with a graceful drape of her shawl, giving herself the lines of an enlarged tanagra, stood before the divan.
"Miss Claudel, our dear, wonderful Herr Balder wishes to meet you. Let me introduce two affinities. Carl," she continued, dreamily, "your sweet sister Terpsichore has consented to do 'Narcissus' for us. She has just finished changing her costume. Your mother will play, and of course you will improvise, so I must tear you from the society of our new sister."
He leaned over her. "Herr Balder shall not alone have the honor of offering you his muse; I will improvise to you!"
Victoria controlled a laugh and looked as soulful as the circumstances seemed to require.
The poet turned to follow his hostess, and she encountered a valentine in each of Herr Balder's round eyes. The suppressed laugh broke out. ​She blushed at her rudeness, and endeavored to cover it.
"I feel as happy as a girl at her first ball," she gurgled.
"And I am as happy as a man in love," he replied, voicing the valentine.
"Why, I thought a man in love was always a most unhappy creature?"
"No, not so," he smiled.
Anxious to break the rather awkward thread of the conversation, she turned toward the room. "We must be quiet. Mr. Red is going to begin."
The piano now attacked by a stout lady, whose gown resembled a purple toga, gave forth in rather mechanical time, the familiar strains from the "Water Nymph Suite." The 1830 poet gloomed and glowered, turning his inspired orbs upon the conscious Victoria.
"Oh, love, it is thy beautiful face I see!"
Mr. Red exclaimed, in liquid tones, half-recitation, half-song.
The Japanese curtain parted, the slim girl in Greek attire reaching to the knee, like the Spartan ​girl's running costume made famous by the statue, gambolled awkwardly in on the tips of her pink satin ballet slippers.
"Oh, gaze on me! oh, gaze on me!"
continued the improvisator. The gleesome sister executed a colt-like gyration and stood "at pose."
A discreet murmur greeted the picture. Around the imaginary pool, the more than imaginary Narcissus cavorted, smiling admiringly at the polished floor from which the rugs had been rolled back. The beat of the piano and the cadences of the poet dwindled in Victoria's ears as the absurdity of the dance took hold upon her. The time changed. Mr. Red changed the metre of his poem and announced "The Anger of the Gods." The dancer, who had certainly earned it, seemed, to do her justice, to be in trouble. "Narcissus transformed to a flower," melodiously warbled the poet, selecting another attitude, the music returning to its opening movement. Narcissus stood poised on one foot, seemingly unable to place the other.
"A flower upon its stem," observed Herr Balder.
​"A stork on one leg," Victoria retorted, in a whisper.
He looked pained. "Don't you admire it?"
"The music, yes."
"No, the idealization."
"Meaning the acrobatics? I can't say I do."
He sighed. "It is not her best, perhaps. You should see her do the Rubaiyat!"
Victoria flamed. "The Rubáiyát! She dares!"
"A genius always dares."
"Good heavens!" The gray eyes filled with resentment. "Anything but that—it's sacrilege!"
The music ceased. A murmur of delight, a sudden chorus of adulation met the "artists."
"They actually applaud that!" Victoria exclaimed, in amaze.
"Applaud and pay for the privilege elsewhere. She gets one hundred and fifty dollars and more for a dance."
Victoria rubbed her eyes. "I have been away for some time, I know, and there is nonsense enough in Europe over such things, but—never, never would have believed it possible here."
​"It is only one phase of our new artistic development," said Herr Balder, encouragingly. "You will hear and see many things in this salon that will doubtless delight you. Miss Fenodo will read from her poems. I fancy she is more in your line."
In the buzz of renewed conversation and general shifting of partners, Mrs. Durham had made her escape and was coming toward them.
"Isn't she handsome!" exclaimed Herr Balder, "dear Muse!"
The Muse certainly was handsome. Her girlish, slender fairness did not prevent her face from showing the vigorous intellect behind it, nor the cynical humor of her eyes, which were the only old thing about her. She subsided on the divan, and gazed at her friend with mirthful inquiry.
"Having a good time?"
Victoria nodded. "Yes, but I'm a little confused. You know Herr Balder?"
"Oh, dear, yes; every one in the inner circle knows his geniusship."
The musician beamed and bowed. "Miss ​Claudel does not seem to admire Miss Red's interpretations as we do," he murmured.
"Really!" and Mrs. Durham looked with such innocent reproof at her unenthusiastic friend that Victoria all but lost her self-control.
"Ah!" she went on, "she hasn't seen Madame Despard faint down-stairs backwards. That is a dream of grace; it always reminds me of Alice, who studied 'drawling and stretching and fainting in coils.'"
"I don't believe I know the lady," Herr Balder remarked.
"Oh, she's Alice Carroll, a friend of our youth and the delight of our old age. There's quite a crush to-day. I see Miss Lewis, Miss Manse, and Mrs. Bonson. When were they admitted? or are they just Mæcenases?"
"Is that one of the passwords of the inner circle?" Victoria inquired; "and have you made a verb—I Maecenas, thou Msecenasest, and he Maecenases?"
Mrs. Durham called Victoria's attention to a couple near them. "There is Mr. Valdeck with a very smart-looking woman. Probably he's ​showing her Bohemia, as one takes a party through the slums."
"Why, it's Philippa Ford," Victoria exclaimed. "Who did you say the man was?"
"Lucius Valdeck, an Austrian or a Pole or something, travelling for pleasure. He hasn't been here long; in fact, when I met him he was just up from New Orleans, and that wasn't more than—let's see—three months ago. He has made his way with wonderful rapidity; one meets him everywhere, and he hasn't a title, either."
Victoria drew her heavy brows together in a frown. "I've seen him before; I'm sure I have, but I can't place him."
"Oh, probably; he's the sort of a person one would be sure to meet with in society, either proper or improper."
"I'll ask Philippa about him; he's somebody, or she wouldn't bother with him. By the way, I promised her she should meet you. She admires your work immensely. I'll call her over."
Philippa, having been introduced to the presiding soul, was slowly progressing through the crowd, while Valdeck presented various notables. ​He was devoted, almost tender, and did not seem in the least desirous of masking his infatuation for his companion. She was looking her best—and knew it. Her blonde hair shone softly under a velvet hat with curling plume. Her color was high, her eyes brilliant, she exhaled a perfume of violets and elegant femininity. In her triumphal progress she approached Victoria, who nodded pleasantly. She at once disengaged herself from the tentacles of the editor of The Voice, and having recognized Mrs. Durham, precipitated herself upon Victoria—introductions followed, and the authoress found herself metaphorically clasped to the breast of her "constant reader."
"SUDDENLY HIS EYES MET VICTORIA'S."
"Auray!" He almost spoke the word. Outwardly his calm did not desert him. Changing his direction, as if he had perceived some one requiring his attention, he disappeared into the adjoining room, where the punch-bowl, ringed with glasses, called the convivially inclined. He poured himself a glass, noticing as he did so a slight tremor in his hand. With wonderful nerve he steadied himself and drank. "This has got to be planned for," he thought. "I must keep out of sight, if possible; if not, it will have to be brazened out. Oh, the damnable luck of it!"
A superstitious fear tightened about his heart. He had always been so amazingly fortunate. ​Was a turn in that fabled wheel to transform his car of triumph into the Juggernaut that should crush him? He plucked out the fear resolutely. Very probably she had not recognized him. However, she evidently felt that she had seen him before. From that to recognition was only a step, one that might or might not be taken, but one to be prepared for. He glanced rapidly over his present position. As far as he could judge it was secure; his letters of introduction had been excellent. The warm-hearted Southerners to whom he had devoted himself on his ocean trip had more than rewarded his attentions. Nothing could be proved for months, and all he wanted was another week or two of his present freedom.
He stopped short. The pin! the jewel he had foolishly given Philippa the more securely to bind her to his interests! It was a part of that very Auray haul! Again a stab of foreboding smote him, and he cursed himself.
"That's what I get for letting my foolish antiquarian respect get the better of my judgment," he thought. "It should have been broken up along with the modern pieces; though it was ​hardly worth five hundred francs aside from its artistic value. Rose diamonds have no market, and the emerald, good color, was terribly flawed. There's only one chance in a million that that girl may have seen it on the old lady; another chance in a thousand that she would recall it sufficiently to identify it. But—I must get the thing from Philippa at any cost," he said, aloud. "She's wearing it!" flashed over him. He drank another glass of punch and sat down. "She has her sable cape on," he argued; "it's becoming; she won't take it off unless the place gets insupportably hot. Perhaps— But allowing she does show it—what then?" He clenched his hand. "Vanity, pride—those are her weaknesses. I must compromise her so completely that to save herself she will have to work with me. She's a fool, and she loves the venturesome, provided she thinks she won t be caught. She believes she can manage men, in any and all situations—we'll see. She'll go to dinner if she can give her aunt a good excuse. She must be dining somewhere else. A girl of that kind always has a friend to use as a blind, either because she's ​good-natured, or because she wants a return in kind. How am I to get hold of her without running up against the other girl?" Like Napoleon, he possessed the faculty of concentrating his thoughts in the most distracting environments. With the whole energy of his physical and mental strength he set himself to frame his plans amid the hubbub of the afternoon tea. The better to excuse his absorption he opened his note-book and became apparently engrossed in jotting down something from time to time—a trick not infrequent in this circle of idea-mongers.
Meanwhile Philippa was deploying her forces to surround and capture Mrs. Testly Durham for her purposed dinner.
"When could she and dearest Victoria come? It must be soon. What, all the week engaged? They must set their own date, then—such busy people! Oh, yes, she knew they must be fairly importuned with invitations—but this was different; friends from childhood. So glad Victoria had at last come home."
"Dear Victoria," who fully appreciated the ​situation, smiled sweetly at Mrs. Durham's struggles in the well-known net.
"Let us say next Thursday, then," she finally put in, with decision.
Mrs. Durham's mouth opened to remind Victoria of the Gordon's poster-party, but a dig from a neatly shod foot turned the reminder to a cordial acceptance.
Victoria broached her puzzle. "Who is the man you came in with, Philippa? I've seen him somewhere, or else he looks like some one I have seen, but I can't place him, and my brain is softening from the strain."
Philippa's face brightened, delighted to blow the trumpet of her protégé's prowess. "Mr. Valdeck. Such a dear. He's quite after your own heart, so charming, so cultivated, so well-bred. He belongs to a well-known Polish family, is wealthy. He is travelling for pleasure under an incognito, of course, to avoid newspaper reporters and that sort of thing. Oh, he is a very serious, retiring sort of fellow in spite of his social position. The Pointue girls gave him letters of introduction—one to me, of ​course—Consuelo Pointue and I are close friends, you know. He has been a great success. All of our set have received him. You must meet him. Where is he, I wonder? I thought he would follow me over here. Madame Despard must have seized on him to entertain some wallflower—he is so good-natured. Between ourselves," she added, in her desire to aggrandize her adorer, "he has an important mission over here; not officially, you know, and you mustn't refer to it. His telling me was quite confidential."
Mrs. Durham smiled. "You may rest assured that Miss Claudel and I will keep the secret as you would yourself."
"Oh, I'm sure of it," Philippa went on, unconscious of the speaker's mild irony, "I am an excellent judge of people. I can count my mistakes on my fingers."
"But all this," Victoria objected, ruefully, "doesn't help me in the least. I cannot place the man, and I feel memory nagging at consciousness, as if it were connected with something important. Don't you hate that sensation?"
Mrs. Durham nodded assent.
​A strident "S—h—sh" from the hostess silenced the chatter in the rooms. "Miss Fenodo will read a few selections from her forthcoming book of poems," she announced.
A tall, angular woman, clad in a plain serge walking-suit, rose to her feet and nodded awkwardly at the gathering. She seemed ill at ease, and fumbled nervously with several typewritten papers.
"'The Enchanted Mesa,'" she read, in an uncertain voice.
Philippa turned a vague eye on Victoria. "What's a 'Mesa'?"
"'The Enchanted Mesa,'" explained Mrs. Durham, "is the name of those curious mountains in Arizona or New Mexico—it's—"
But the lank poetess had struck her gait, as one sometimes sees a lean, loose-built horse develope exceeding speed. Hers was real poetry, clear, terse, forceful, and colored. Amid the trumpery nonsense of the mock Bohemian salon, it was as much out of place as a jewel in an ash-heap. Every line minted clear and gleaming, the rare golden coin of language.
​An astonished silence followed the reading, but Victoria startled the audience with a vehement and reverberating "Bravo!" The applause broke out in a decorous wave, but it was plain to be seen that the shot had passed far over the heads of most of the listeners, notably the editor of The Voice, who shrugged his shoulders, as if he had refused that sort of thing by the ton.
The eyes of the reader naturally turned to the group on the divan, where Victoria, overcome by the sudden outburst of her own voice, was blushing furiously.
"'A Legend of Monterey.'" She read the verses directly to her partisan with a half-apologetic look, as if explaining the need of a mental support. This time the enthusiasm was more roused, and Victoria's sincere delight found fuller backing.
"I'm going to speak to her," she announced, as the woman crumpled her papers and moved stiffly aside.
"So am I," Mrs. Durham exclaimed. "She's real."
Philippa, who had a witty epigram all prepared, ​with which to crush the poetess, was annoyed at the enthusiasm of her companions, but as Mrs. Durham was a celebrity, and Victoria, as she had good cause to know, was an unerring picker of literary winners, she reluctantly pocketed the epigram, for use at some other time, and announced herself on fire to pay tribute to "that really remarkable talent."
The three ladies had risen, when a servant approached Philippa with a folded card.
"Wait for me one moment," she begged, "till I see what this is."
Two lines in pencil in Valdeck's hand. "Russian consul just come; must slip off. Join me in vestibule, please—undiscovered."
With a delighted sense of her importance and the romance of the situation, Philippa blushed with eagerness and excitement. "I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, hurriedly; "I must go at once. Do remember Thursday next; I'm coming to call before, of course. Good-bye, Mrs. Durham, I'm so glad to have met you; good-bye. Oh, Victoria, will you fasten this hook for me, like a dear?" She leaned forward, holding out the ​soft fur edges of her cape collar, revealing as she did so the elaborate velvet appliqué of her waist and the exquisite beauty of an ancient pin that nestled at her throat.
Victoria's eyes rested on it for one breathless second, then her voice spoke strange and sharp as she fairly jerked out the question: "Where did you get that?"
"Goodness!" thought Philippa, quickly, "I can't tell her I accepted such a valuable present from Valdeck—can't even excuse it on old friendship. I'm engaged to Morton, I forgot to tell her—but now isn't the time." An imperceptible pause covered this calculating. "Why, Victoria," she said, gently, "what makes you so savage? It's an old thing of mother's. I found it not long ago among some letters and keepsakes of hers. Pretty, isn't it?"
Philippa's voice was full of sentiment and sorrow. To hear her one felt instinctively the desire to protect this motherless girl, and to pass quickly from a subject that might cause sad recollections. Victoria controlled the strong emotion that shook her.
​"Oh," she said, awkwardly, "it's very handsome and most unusual."
"I must go," Philippa mourned, and with an affectionate backward glance, moved toward her hostess. "Such a charming time, my dear Mrs. Despard. You must come to my Thursdays. I hear the Russian consul is here; do point him out to me."
"Is he?" queried madame, languidly. "I don't know, I'm sure; some one must have brought him. Yes, do come again."
"Let's go," said Victoria, shortly, as Philippa left them, "I want to talk to you; I want to get out of this." Mrs. Durham looked astonishment, but Victoria persisted.
"Let's leave immediately, if you don't mind—that is —I'm upset."
Mrs. Durham sent a diagnosing glance over her charge and nodded, her face becoming serious. "Is anything the matter?" she asked.
"I don't know," answered Victoria, helplessly; "I wish I did."
Mrs. Durham promptly linked her arm through her friend's, and bore her rapidly down the room ​to where the hostess stood talking in the centre of a little attentive circle.
"We want to extend our thanks to you," she said, "for the pleasure and the privilege of hearing such good poetry. We really have a great deal to say on the subject, but we have to go."
Victoria tried to tone down the abruptness of their departure, but was obviously uneasy and preoccupied. The poetess seemed disappointed. The sudden natural outburst of Victoria's admiration had led her to hope for one of the rare sympathies she occasionally inspired, and the pang of loneliness that followed on its non-fulfilment lasted long after "The Enchanted Mesa" had completely faded from Victoria's mind. Of such strange stuff is our sensitiveness made.
As the friends left the hubbub of the tea, and sought the shelter of Mrs. Durham's studio, neither of them spoke. It was not until the cigarette had gone out several times and Victoria had walked the floor sturdily for some half mile that the flood-gates were opened. During the interval Mrs. Durham settled herself in one ​of the huge leather club chairs and watched her visitor with attention.
"Here goes!" Victoria broke out suddenly, flinging herself heavily into the chair opposite. She plunged into the story of the Auray robbery, described the Englishman minutely, the countess and her jewels, the nurse's story and its contradictions, the death of the child, the fruitless efforts of the police, Sonia's constant annoyance at being called upon to identify arrested persons bearing no possible resemblance to the criminal, her own return to America, her meeting with Valdeck and her difficulty in remembering where she had seen him—crowned by the sudden revealing glimpse of the countess's brooch on the breast of Philippa Ford, and the instant flash of recollection that, in spite of the change of hair and the disappearance of the mustache, showed her the mock O'Farrell in Valdeck the Pole.
Her friend heard her out without interruption, proof positive of a most unusual female intellect. When at last Victoria paused, Mrs. Durham began tearing the edge of a magazine into infini​tesimal bits, a habit she frequently indulged in during moments of concentration.
"First, are you absolutely sure about the pin?" she asked, presently, more as an opening wedge than a question.
"Absolutely."
"And the man?"
"Still more so—if that is possible."
"Miss Ford said it had belonged to her mother. There might be two such pins in the world."
Victoria shook her head. "And two such men—no! Besides, Philippa is a born liar; it isn't even second nature with her, it's first nature. She didn't want me to think she had accepted such a present from a mere acquaintance; but I have known her to take as much and more from any man who would offer it to her. She recognizes no obligation in it. She sees it merely as tribute paid to her superlative beauty and wit. She would take the Kohinoor from the devil himself ten minutes after they had been introduced."
Mrs. Durham laughed. "It's no use cautioning her, then, concerning Valdeck. As far as I can see, the French consul is the person for you ​to notify; let him take charge of the case. If it's a question of extradition, it's up to him; but you will have to be absolutely sure of your quarry. Where is Sonia?"
"In Paris."
"Do you think he recognized you?"
Victoria paused. "I'm sure I don't know. If he did, he hid it well. But I noticed that he didn't come anywhere near me after he once saw me staring at him, and I'm morally certain that the card the man brought Philippa was from him, accounting for his desertion of her, and making a rendezvous. Oh! Philippa would go anywhere if you made the situation sufficiently dramatic."
"Well," and Mrs. Durham put down the dilapidated magazine, "I wouldn't fret, dear. To-morrow I'd call on the consul and lay the matter before him. He will probably have the man watched, perhaps get an order to search his apartments. More probably he'll do nothing at all until he cables to the chief of police. If the Vernon-Latours-what-you-may-call-ums are of sufficient importance, they'll follow the matter up, if not, they'll drop it—anyway, you will have ​done all that can be expected of you. It's a curious coincidence, though—I'll use it in my next novel."
The mere statement of the case had relieved Victoria's feelings, the events sunk to their proper proportion with reference to herself; the shock of recognition was past, and the world was proceeding much as usual.
"I'm glad I told you about it," she went on. "One cannot see a thing in one's mind as clearly as a thing taken out, concreted and put into words; it then becomes an entity you can turn over and consider. When it's jammed inside your skull it takes up all the available room."
She stretched herself and relaxed with the graceful completeness of a cat, nerves and muscles let down from their tension.
"Anne," she spoke again, "I now understand why you keep your workroom so bare and plain. It makes one clear and concise in thought. I could never have stated my case so quickly—pardon a little bouquet that I throw myself—or so well at Madame Despard's, for instance. ​There is nothing like large, bare spaces to make one clear-sighted and simple."
Mrs. Durham rose and looked at her watch. "Perfectly right, my dear Victoria. I've often wanted to hire a prairie."