“I didn’t mean it. I was waiting
for—why, my car went to pieces,”
he explained. “Is Pauline here?”
“Here? She is the only person present.
Baskinelli hasn’t spoken a word to any one
else. He won’t play anything unless she
suggests the subject. I am glad Mr. Owen is
here to protect her.”
From the scintillant, filmy mist of women around the
piano Lucille emerged. She came swiftly to Harry’s
side.
“What is the matter?” she asked.
“What is? Tell me.” he replied.
“What did you say to her?”
“I didn’t see her, Harry. She sent
word that she was not at home.”
“You don’t mean—not after you
started upstairs.”
“Yes—and she hasn’t spoken
to me all evening.”
“And she left me waiting at home for half an
hour. It’s outrageous.”
Harry strode across the floor just as the music ceased,
and Baskinelli arose, bowing to the applause of his
feminine admirers.
“May I ask the honor to show to you Madame Courtelyou’s
portrait of myself? It is called ‘The
Glorification of Imbecility,’” he said
as he proffered his arm to Pauline.
He was a small man, with sharp features shadowed by
a mass of flowing, curling hair—the kind
of hair that has come to be called “musical”
by the irreverent. The sweep of an abnormal brow
gave emphasis to the sudden jut of deep eye sockets,
and a dull, sallow skin gave emphasis to the subtle
sinister light, of the eyes themselves.
Pauline accepted the proffered arm of the artist,
but daintily, laughingly, she turned him back to the
piano.
“You haven’t yet escaped, Signor Baskinelli,”
she said. “We have not yet heard ‘Tivoli,’
you know.”
“Tivoli,” he cried, with hands upraised
in mock disdain. “Why, I wrote the thing
myself. Am I to violate even my own masterpieces?”
There was a twitter of mocking protest from the women.
Baskinelli began to play again.
“Pauline, may I speak to you—just
a moment?” Harry’s vexed voice reached
her ear as she stood beside the piano. She turned
slowly and looked into his bewildered, angry eyes.
“A little later—possibly,”
she answered, and instantly turned back to Baskinelli.
From her no mask of music, no glamour of others’
admiration could hide the predatory obsequiousness
of Baskinelli. She was not in the least interested
in Baskinelli. She had loathed him from the moment
when she had looked down on his little oily curls.
But if Baskinelli had been Beelzebub he would have
enjoyed the favor of Pauline that evening—at
least, after Harry had arrived.
The glowing piquant beauty of Pauline enthralled Baskinelli.
He had never before seen a woman like her—innocent
but astute, daring but demure, brilliant but opalescent.
When at last they strolled away together into the
conservatory his drawing room obeisances became direct
declarations of love.
