The Point of View | Page 4

writing-table in the corner of the hall to answer her lover's chaste effusion--and saw that the low armchair beside the escritoire was tenanted by a pair of long legs with singularly fine silk socks showing upon singularly fine ankles--and a pair of strong slender hands held a newspaper in front of the rest of the body, concealing it all and the face. It was the English TIMES, which, as everybody knows, could hide Gargantua himself.
She began her letter--and not a rustle disturbed her peace.
"Dearest Eustace," she had written, "we have arrived in Rome--" and then she stopped, and fixed her eyes blankly upon the column of births, marriages, and deaths. She was staring at it with sightless eyes, when the paper was slowly lowered and over its top the blue orbs of the stranger looked into hers.
Her pretty color became the hue of a bright pink rose. "Mademoiselle," a very deep voice said in English, "is not this world full of bores and tiresome duties; have you the courage to defy them all for a few minutes--and talk to me instead?"
"Monsieur!" Miss Rawson burst out, and half rose from her seat. Then she sat down again--the unknown had not stirred a muscle.
"Good," he murmured. "One has to be courageous to do what is unconventional, even if it is not wrong. I am not desirous of hurting or insulting you--I felt we might have something to say to each other--is it so--tell me, am I right?"
"I do not know," whispered Stella lamely. She was so taken aback at the preposterous fact that a stranger should have addressed her at all, even in a manner of indifference and respect, that she knew not what to do.
"I observed you last night," he went on. "I am accustomed to judge of character rapidly--it is a habit I have acquired during my travels in foreign lands--when I cannot use the standard of my own. You are weary of a number of things, and you do not know anything at all about life, and you are hedged round with those who will see that you never learn its meaning. Tell me--what do you think of Rome--it contains things and aspects which afford food for reflection, is it not so?"
"We have only been to the Vatican as yet," Stella answered timidly--she was still much perturbed at the whole incident, but now that she had begun she determined she might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, and she was conscious that there was a strong attraction in the mild blue eyes of the stranger. His manner had a complete repose and absence of self-consciousness, which usually is only to be found in the people of race--in any nation.
"You were taken to the Sistine Chapel, of course," he went on, "and to the loggia and Bramant's staircase? You saw some statues, too, perhaps?"
"My uncle and aunt do not care much for sculpture," Miss Rawson said, now regaining her composure, "but I like it--even better than pictures."
The stranger kept his steady eyes fixed upon her face all the time.
"I have a nymph in my house at home," he returned. "She came originally from Rome; she is not Greek and she is very like you, the same droop of head--I remarked it immediately--I am superstitous--I suppose you would call what I mean by that word-- and I knew directly that some day you, too, would mean things to me. That is why I spoke--do you feel it, too?"
Stella Rawson quivered. The incredible situation paralyzed her. She--the Aunt Caroline's niece, and engaged to Eustace Medlicott, the Bishop's junior chaplain, to be listening to a grotesque- looking foreigner making subtle speeches of an insinuating character, and, far from feeling scandalized and repulsed, to be conscious that she was thrilled and interested--it was hardly to be believed!
"Will you tell me from where you come?" she asked with sweet bashfulness, raising two eyes as soft as brown velvet. "You speak English so very well--one cannot guess."
"I am a Russian," he said simply. "I come from near Moscow--and my name is Sasha Roumovski, Count Roumovski. Yours, I am aware, is Rawson, but I would like to know how you are called--Mary, perhaps? That is English."
"No, my name is not Mary," she answered, and froze a little--but the Russian's eyes continued to gaze at her with the same mild frankness which disarmed any resentment. She felt they were as calm as deep pools of blue water--they filled her with a sense of confidence and security--which she could not account for in any way.
Her color deepened--something in his peaceful expectancy seemed to compel her to answer his late question.
"My Christian name is Stella," she said, rather quickly, then added nervously: "I am engaged to Mr. Eustace Medlicott, an English clergyman--we are going to be