Mr. Achilles | Page 6

pallid under its careful massage and skilfully touched surface.
To Betty Harris her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world-- more beautiful than the marble Venus at the head of the long staircase, or the queenly lady in the next room, forever stepping down from her gilded frame into the midst of tapestry and leather in the library. It may have been that Betty's mother was quite as much a work of art in her way as these other treasures that had come from the Old World. But to Betty Harris, who had slight knowledge of art values, her mother was beautiful, because her eyes had little points of light in them that danced when she laughed, and her lips curved prettily, like a bow, if she smiled.
They curved now as she looked up from her note. "Well, daughter?" She had sealed the note and laid it one side. "Was it a good lesson?" She leaned back in her chair, stroking the child's hand softly, while her eyes travelled over the quaint, dignified little figure. The child was a Velasquez--people had often remarked it, and the mother had taken the note that gave to her clothes the regal air touched with simplicity. "So it was a good lesson, was it?" she repeated, absently, as she stroked the small dark hand--her own figure graciously outlined as she leaned back enjoying the lifted face and straight, clear eyes.
"Mother-dear!" The child's voice vibrated with the intensity behind it. "I have seen a man--a very /good/ man!"
"Yes?" There was a little laugh in the word. She was accustomed to the child's enthusiasms. Yet they were always new to her--even the old ones were. "Who was he, daughter--this very good man?"
"He is a Greek, mother--with a long, beautiful name--I don't think I can tell it to you. But he is most wonderful--!" The child spread her hands and drew a deep breath.
"More wonderful than father?" It was an idle, laughing question--while she studied the lifted-up face.
"More wonderful than father--yes--" The child nodded gravely. "I can't quite tell you, mother-dear, how it feels--" She laid a tiny hand on her chest. Her eyes were full of thought. "He speaks like music, and he loves things--oh, very much!"
"I see-- And did Madame Lewandowska introduce you to him?"
"Oh, it was not there." The child's face cleared with swift thought. "I didn't tell you--Madame was ill--"
The reclining figure straightened a little in its place, but the face was still smiling. "So you and Miss Stone--"
"But Miss Stone is ill, mother-dear. Did you forget her toothache?" The tone was politely reproachful.
The woman was very erect now--her small eyes, grown wide, gazing at the child, devouring her. "Betty! Where have you been?" It was more a cry than a question--a cry of dismay, running swiftly toward terror. It was the haunting fear of her life that Betty would some day be kidnapped, as the child next door had been. . . . The fingers resting on the arm of the chair were held tense.
"I don't think I did wrong, mother." The child was looking at her very straight, as if answering a challenge. "You see, I walked home--"
"Where was James?" The woman's tone was sharp, and her hand reached toward the bell; but the child's hand moved softly toward it.
"I'd like to tell you about it myself, please, mother. James never waits for the lessons. I don't think he was to blame."
The woman's eyes were veiled with sudden mist. She drew the child close. "Tell mother about it."
Betty Harris looked down, stroking her mother's sleeve. A little smile of memory held her lips. "He was a beautiful man!" she said.
The mother waited, breathless.
"I was walking home, and I came to his shop--"
"To his shop!"
She nodded reassuringly. "His fruit-shop--and--oh, I forgot--" She reached into the little bag at her side, tugging at something. "He gave me these." She produced the round box and took off the lid, looking into it with pleased eyes. "Aren't they beautiful?"
The mother bent blindly to it. "Pomegranates," she said. Her lips were still a little white, but they smiled bravely with the child's pleasure.
"Pomegranates," said Betty, nodding. "That is what he called them. I should like to taste one--" She was looking at them a little wistfully.
"We will have them for luncheon," said the mother. She had touched the bell with quick decision.
"Marie"--she held out the box--"tell Nesmer to serve these with luncheon."
"Am I to have luncheon with you, mother-dear?" The child's eyes were on her mother's face.
"With me--yes." The reply was prompt--if a little tremulous.
The child sighed happily. "It is being a marvellous day," she said, quaintly.
The mother smiled. "Come and get ready for luncheon, and then you shall tell me about the wonderful man."
So it came about that Betty Harris, seated across the dark,