Marriage à la mode | Page 6

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amused. This girl was always awakening in him these violent or
desperate images. Was it her fault that she possessed those brilliant
eyes--eyes, as it seemed, of the typical, essential woman?--and that
downy brunette skin, with the tinge in it of damask red?--and that
instinctive art of lovely gesture in which her whole being seemed to
express itself? Boyson, who was not only a rising soldier, but an
excellent amateur artist, knew every line of the face by heart. He had
drawn Miss Daphne from the life on several occasions; and from
memory scores of times. He was not likely to draw her from life any
more; and thereby hung a tale. As far as he was concerned the train had
passed--in flame and fury--leaving an echoing silence behind it.
What folly! He turned resolutely to Mrs. Verrier, and tried to discuss
with her an exhibition of French art recently opened in Washington. In
vain. After a few sentences, the talk between them dropped, and both

he and she were once more watching Miss Floyd, and joining in the
conversation whenever she chose to draw them in.
As for Roger Barnes, he too was steadily subjugated--up to a certain
point. He was not sure that he liked Miss Floyd, or her conversation.
She was so much mistress of herself and of the company, that his
masculine vanity occasionally rebelled. A little flirt!--that gave herself
airs. It startled his English mind that at twenty--for she could be no
more--a girl should so take the floor, and hold the stage. Sometimes he
turned his back upon her--almost; and Cecilia Boyson held him. But, if
there was too much of the "eternal womanly" in Miss Floyd, there was
not enough in Cecilia Boyson. He began to discover also that she was
too clever for him, and was in fact talking down to him. Some of the
things that she said to him about New York and Washington puzzled
him extremely. She was, he supposed, intellectual; but the intellectual
women in England did not talk in the same way. He was equal to them,
or flattered himself that he was; but Miss Boyson was beyond him. He
was getting into great difficulties with her, when suddenly Miss Floyd
addressed him:
"I am sure I saw you in New York, at the opera?"
She bent over to him as she spoke, and lowered her voice. Her look was
merry, perhaps a little satirical. It put him on his guard.
"Yes, I was there. You were pointed out to me."
"You were with some old friends of mine. I suppose they gave you an
account of me?"
"They were beginning it; but then Melba began to sing, and some
horrid people in the next box said 'Hush!'"
She studied him in a laughing silence a moment, her chin on her hand,
then said:
"That is the worst of the opera; it stops so much interesting
conversation."

"You don't care for the music?"
"Oh, I am a musician!" she said quickly. "I teach it. But I am like the
mad King of Bavaria--I want an opera-house to myself."
"You teach it?" he said, in amazement.
She nodded, smiling. At that moment a bell rang. Captain Boyson rose.
"That's the signal for closing. I think we ought to be moving up."
They strolled slowly towards the house, watching the stream of
excursionists pour out of the house and gardens, and wind down the hill;
sounds of talk and laughter filled the air, and the western sun touched
the spring hats and dresses.
"The holidays end to-morrow," said Daphne Floyd demurely, as she
walked beside young Barnes. And she looked smiling at the crowd of
young women, as though claiming solidarity with them.
A teacher? A teacher of music?--with that self-confidence--that air as
though the world belonged to her! The young man was greatly
mystified. But he reminded himself that he was in a democratic country
where all men--and especially all women--are equal. Not that the young
women now streaming to the steamboat were Miss Floyd's equals. The
notion was absurd. All that appeared to be true was that Miss Floyd, in
any circumstances, would be, and was, the equal of anybody.
"How charming your friend is!" he said presently to Cecilia Boyson, as
they lingered on the veranda, waiting for the curator, in a scene now
deserted. "She tells me she is a teacher of music."
Cecilia Boyson looked at him in amazement, and made him repeat his
remark. As he did so, his uncle called him, and he turned away. Miss
Boyson leant against one of the pillars of the veranda, shaking with
suppressed laughter.
But at that moment the curator, a gentle, gray-haired man, appeared,

shaking hands with the General, and bowing to the ladies. He gave
them