Red Masquerade | Page 3

the driver. As the vehicle
drew away, one caught a glimpse of a crest upon the panel.
Two women entered the auction room.

II
THE PRINCESS SOFIA
These ladies were young, neither much older than Lanyard, both were
very much alive, openly betraying an infatuation with existence very
like his own, and both were lovely enough to excuse the exquisite
insolence of their young vitality.
As is frequently the case in such associations, since a pretty woman
seldom courts comparison with another of her own colouring, one was
dark, the other fair.
With the first, Lanyard was, like all London, on terms of visual
acquaintance. The reigning beauty of the hour, her portrait was
enjoying a vogue of its own in the public prints. Furthermore, Lady
Diantha Mainwaring was moderately the talk of the town, in those prim,
remotely ante-bellum days--thanks to high spirits and a whimsical
tendency to flout the late Victorian proprieties; something which,
however, had yet to lead her into any prank perilous to her good repute.
The other, a girl whose hair of golden bronze was well set off by
Russian sables, Lanyard did not know at all; but he knew at sight that
she was far too charming a creature to be neglected if ever opportunity
offered to be presented to her. And though the first article of his creed
proscribed women of such disastrous attractions as deadly dangerous to
his kind, he chose without hesitation to forget all that, and at once
began to cudgel his wits for a way to scrape acquaintance with the
companion of Lady Diantha.
Their arrival created an interesting bustle, a buzz of comment, a craning
of necks--flattery accepted by the young women with ostensible
unconcern, a cliché of their caste. As they had entered in a humour
keyed to the highest pitch of gaiety consistent with good breeding, so
with more half-stifled laughter they settled into chairs well apart from
all others but, as it happened, in a direct line between Lanyard and the

man whose repellent cast of countenance had first taken his interest.
Thus it was that Lanyard, after eyeing the young women unobserved as
long as he liked, lifted his glance to discover upon that face a look that
amazed him.
It wasn't too much to say (he thought) that the man was transfigured by
malevolence, so that he blazed with it, so that hatred fairly flowed, an
invisible yet manifest current of poisoned fire, between him and the girl
with the hair of burnished bronze.
All the evil in him seemed to be concentrated in that glare. And yet its
object remained unconscious of it or, if at all sensitive, dissembled
superbly. The man was apparently no more present to her perceptions
than any other person there, except her companion.
Presently, becoming sensible of Lanyard's intrigued regard, the man
looked up, caught him in a stare and, mortally affronted, rewarded him
with a look of virulent enmity.
Not to be outdone, Lanyard gave a fleeting smile, a bare curving of lips
together with an almost imperceptible narrowing of amused
eyes--goading the other to the last stage of exasperation--then calmly
ignored the fellow, returning indifferent attention to the progress of the
sale.
Since nothing was being offered at the moment to draw a bid from him,
he maintained a semblance of interest solely to cover his thoughts,
meanwhile lending a civil ear to the garrulous tongue of a dealer of his
acquaintance who, having edged nearer to indulge a failing for gossip,
found a ready auditor. For when Lanyard began to heed the sense of the
other's words, their subject was the companion of Lady Diantha
Mainwaring.
"... Princess Sofia Vassilyevski, you know, the Russian beauty."
Lanyard lifted his eyebrows the fraction of an inch, meaning to say he
didn't know but at the same time didn't object to enlightenment.
"But you must have heard of her! For weeks all London has been
talking about her jewels, her escapades, her unhappy marriage."
"Married?" Lanyard made a sympathetic mouth. "And so young! Quel
dommage!"
"But separated from her husband."
"Ah!" Lanyard brightened up. "And who, may one ask, is the
husband?"

"Why, he's here, too--over there in the front row--chap with the waxed
moustache and putty-coloured face, staring at her now."
"Oh, that animal! And what right has he got to look like that?"
The buzz of the scandalmonger grew more confidential: "They say he's
never forgiven her for leaving him--though the Lord knows she had
every reason, if half they tell is true. They say he's mad about her still,
gives her no rest, follows her everywhere, is all the time begging her to
return to him--"
"But who the deuce is the beast?" Lanyard interrupted, impatiently.
"You know, I don't like his face."
"Prince Victor,"