The Masquerader | Page 9

rest--or walk about the room. I sha'n't mind which." She nestled into the couch and picked up the crystal ball.
"What is the toy for?" Chilcote looked at her from the mantel-piece, against which he was resting. He had never defined the precise attraction that Lillian Astrupp held for him. Her shallowness soothed him; her inconsequent egotism helped him to forget himself. She never asked him how he was, she never expected impossibilities. She let him come and go and act as he pleased, never demanding reasons. Like the kitten, she was charming and graceful and easily amused; it was possible that, also like the kitten, she could scratch and be spiteful on occasion, but that did not weigh with him. He sometimes expressed a vague envy of the late Lord Astrupp; but, even had circumstances permitted, it is doubtful whether he would have chosen to be his successor. Lillian as a friend was delightful, but Lillian as a wife would have been a different consideration.
"What is the toy for?" he asked again.
She looked up slowly. "How cruel of you, Jack! It is my very latest hobby."
It was part of her attraction that she was never without a craze. Each new one was as fleeting as the last, but to each she brought the same delightfully insincere enthusiasm, the same picturesque devotion. Each was a pose, but she posed so sweetly that nobody lost patience.
"You mustn't laugh!" she protested, letting the kitten slip to the ground. "I've had lessons at five guineas each from the most fascinating person--a professional; and I'm becoming quite an adept. Of course I haven't been much beyond the milky appearance yet, but the milky appearance is everything, you know; the rest will come. I am trying to persuade Blanche to let me have a pavilion at her party in March, and gaze for all you dull political people." Again she smiled.
Chilcote smiled as well. "How is it done?" he asked, momentarily amused.
"Oh, the doing is quite delicious. You sit at a table with the ball in front of you; then you take the subject's hands, spread them out on the table, and stroke them very softly while you gaze into the crystal; that gets up the sympathy, you know." She looked up innocently. "Shall I show you?"
Chilcote moved a small table nearer to the couch and spread his hands upon it, palms downward. "Like this, eh?" he said. Then a ridiculous nervousness seized him and he moved away. "Some other day," he said, quickly. "You can show me some other day. I'm not very fit this afternoon."
If Lillian felt any disappointment, she showed none. "Poor old thing!" she said, softly. "Try to sit here by me and we won't bother about anything." She made a place for him beside her, and as he dropped into it she took his hand and patted it sympathetically.
The touch was soothing, and he bore it patiently enough. After a moment she lifted the hand with a little exclamation of reproof.
"You degenerate person! You have ceased to manicure. What has become of my excellent training?"
Chilcote laughed. "Run to seed," he said, lightly. Then his expression and tone changed. "When a man gets to my age," he added, "little social luxuries don't seem worth while; the social necessities are irksome enough. Personally, I envy the beggar in the street--exempt from shaving, exempt from washing--"
Lillian raised her delicate eyebrows. The sentiment was beyond her perception.
"But manicuring," she said, reproachfully, "when you have such nice hands. It was your hands and your eyes, you know, that first appealed to me." She sighed gently, with a touch of sentimental remembrance. "And I thought it so strong of you not to wear rings--it must be such a temptation." She looked down at her own fingers, glittering with jewels.
But the momentary pleasure of her touch was gone. Chilcote drew away his hand and picked up the book that lay between them.
"Other Men's Shoes!" he read. "A novel, of course?"
She smiled. "Of course. Such a fantastic story. Two men changing identities."
Chilcote rose and walked back to the mantel-piece.
"Changing identities?" he said, with a touch of interest.
"Yes. One man is an artist, the other a millionaire; one wants to know what fame is like, the other wants to know how it feels to be really sinfully rich. So they exchange experiences for a month." She laughed.
Chilcote laughed as well. "But how?" he asked.
"Oh, I told you the idea was absurd. Fancy two people so much alike that neither their friends nor their servants see any difference! Such a thing couldn't be, could it?"
Chilcote looked down at the fire. "No," he said, doubtfully. "No. I suppose not."
"Of course not. There are likenesses, but not freak likenesses like that."
Chilcote's head was bent as she spoke, but at the last words he