The Butterfly House | Page 9

except as a
disturbing element rather more insistent than the others in which he
was submerged.
[Illustration: He was doomed by his own lack of thought to sit through
an especially long session]
He sat straight and grave, his eyes retrospective. He was constantly
getting into awkward situations, and acquitting himself in them with
marvellous dignity and grace. Even Mrs. Sarah Joy Snyder, astute as
she was, regarded him keenly, and could not for the life of her tell
whether he had come premeditatedly or not. She only discovered one
thing, that poor Miss Bessy Dicky was reading at him and posing at
him and trembling her hands at him, and that she was throwing it all
away, for Von Rosen heard no more of her report than if he had been in
China when she was reading it. Mrs. Snyder realised that hardly
anything in nature could be so totally uninteresting to the young man as
the report of a woman's club. Inasmuch as she herself was devoted to
such things, she regarded him with disapproval, although with a certain
admiration. Karl von Rosen always commanded admiration, although
often of a grudging character, from women. His utter indifference to
them as women was the prime factor in this; next to that his really
attractive, even distinguished, personality. He was handsome after the
fashion which usually accompanies devotion to women. He was slight,
but sinewy, with a gentle, poetical face and great black eyes, into which
women were apt to project tenderness merely from their own fancy. It
seemed ridiculous and anomalous that a man of Von Rosen's type
should not be a lover of ladies, and the fact that he was most certainly
not was both fascinating and exasperating.
Now Mrs. George B. Slade, magnificent matron, as she was, moreover

one who had inhaled the perfume of adulation from her youth up, felt a
calm malice. She knew that he had entered her parlour after the manner
of the spider and fly rhyme of her childhood; she knew that the other
ladies would infer that he had come upon her invitation, and her soul
was filled with one of the petty triumphs of petty Fairbridge.
She, however, did not dream of the actual misery which filled the heart
of the graceful, dignified young man by her side. She considered
herself in the position of a mother, who forces an undesired, but
nevertheless, delectable sweet upon a child, who gazes at her with
adoration when the savour has reached his palate. She did not expect
Von Rosen to be much edified by Miss Bessy Dicky's report. She had
her own opinion of Miss Bessy Dicky, of her sleeves, of her gown, and
her report, but she had faith in the truly decorative features of the
occasion when they should be underway, and she had immense faith in
Mrs. Sarah Joy Snyder. She was relieved when Miss Bessy Dicky sat
down, and endeavoured to compose her knees, which by this time were
trembling like her hands, and also to assume an expression as if she had
done nothing at all, and nobody was looking at her. That last because of
the fact that she had done so little, and nobody was looking at her
rendered her rather pathetic.
Miss Bessy Dicky did not glance at the minister, but she, nevertheless,
saw him. She had never had a lover, and here was the hero of her
dreams. He would never know it and nobody else would ever know it,
and no harm would be done except very possibly, by and by, a
laceration of the emotions of an elderly maiden, and afterwards a
life-long scar. But who goes through life without emotional scars?
After Miss Bessy Dicky sat down, Mrs. Wilbur Edes, the lady of the
silver bell, rose. She lifted high her delicate chin, her perfect blond
pompadour caught the light, her black lace robe swept round her in rich
darkness, with occasional revelations of flower and leaf, the fairly
poetical pattern of real lace. As she rose, she diffused around her a
perfume as if rose-leaves were stirred up. She held a dainty
handkerchief, edged with real lace, in her little left hand, which
glittered with rings. In her right, was a spangled fan like a black

butterfly. Mrs. Edes was past her first youth, but she was undeniably
charming. She was like a little, perfect, ivory toy, which time has
played with but has not injured. Mrs. Slade looked at her, then at Karl
von Rosen. He looked at Mrs. Wilbur Edes, then looked away. She was
most graceful, but most positively uninteresting. However, Mrs. Slade
was rather pleased at that. She and Mrs. Edes were rival stars. Von
Rosen had never looked long at her, and it seemed right he