The Sowers | Page 9

reach such as are above them by doing that

which should be beneath them. Lord Mealhead, by the way, was not
there. He never is anywhere where the respectable writer and his
high-born reader are to be found. It is discreet not to enquire where
Lord Mealhead is, especially of Lady Mealhead, who has severed more
completely her connection with the past. His lordship is, perchance, of
a sentimental humor, and loves to wander in those pasteboard groves
where first he met his Tiny--and very natural, too.
There was music and the refreshments. It was, in fact, a reception.
Gaul's most lively sons bowed before Albion's fairest daughters, and
displayed that fund of verve and esprit which they rightly pride
themselves upon possessing, and which, of course, leave mere
Englishmen so far behind in the paths of love and chivalry.
When not thus actively engaged they whispered together in corners and
nudged each other, exchanging muttered comments, in which the word
charmante came conveniently to the fore. Thus, the lightsome son of
republican Gaul in society.
It is, however, high time to explain the reason of our own presence--of
our own reception by France's courteous representative. We are here to
meet Mrs. Sydney Bamborough, and, moreover, to confine our
attention to the persons more or less implicated in the present history.
Mrs. Sydney Bamborough was undoubtedly the belle of the evening.
She had only to look in one of the many mirrors to make sure of that
fact. And if she wanted further assurance a hundred men in the room
would have been ready to swear to it. This lady had recently dawned on
London society--a young widow. She rarely mentioned her husband; it
was understood to be a painful subject. He had been attached to several
embassies, she said; he had a brilliant career before him, and suddenly
he had died abroad. And then she gave a little sigh and a bright smile,
which, being interpreted, meant "Let us change the subject."
There was never any doubt about Mrs. Sydney Bamborough. She was
aristocratic to the tips of her dainty white fingers--composed, gentle,
and quite sure of herself. Quite the grand lady, as Lady Mealhead said.
But Mrs. Sydney Bamborough did not know Lady Mealhead, which

may have accounted for the titled woman's little sniff of interrogation.
As a matter of fact, Etta Sydney Bamborough came from excellent
ancestry, and could claim an uncle here, a cousin there, and a number
of distant relatives everywhere, should it be worth the while.
It was safe to presume that she was rich from the manner in which she
dressed, the number of servants and horses she kept, the general air of
wealth which pervaded her existence. That she was beautiful any one
could see for himself--not in the shop-windows, among the presumably
self-selected types of English beauty, but in the proper place--namely,
in her own and other aristocratic drawing-rooms.
She was talking to a tall, fair Frenchman--in perfect French--and was
herself nearly as tall as he. Bright brown hair waved prettily back from
a white forehead, clever, dark gray eyes and a lovely complexion--one
of those complexions which, from a purity of conscience or a
steadiness of nerve, never change. Cheeks of a faint pink, an expressive,
mobile mouth, a neck of dazzling white. Such was Mrs. Sydney
Bamborough, in the prime of her youth.
"And you maintain that it is five years since we met," she was saying to
the tall Frenchman.
"Have I not counted every day?" he replied.
"I do not know," she answered, with a little laugh, that little laugh
which tells wise men where flattery may be shot like so much
conversational rubbish. Some women are fathomless pits, the rubbish
never seems to fill them. "I do not know, but I should not think so."
"Well, madam, it is so. Witness these gray hairs. Ah! those were happy
days in St. Petersburg."
Mrs. Sydney Bamborough smiled--a pleasant society smile, not too
pronounced and just sufficient to suggest pearly teeth. At the mention
of St. Petersburg she glanced round to see that they were not overheard.
She gave a little shiver.

"Don't speak of Russia!" she pleaded. "I hate to hear it mentioned. I
was so happy. It is painful to remember."
Even while she spoke the expression of her face changed to one of gay
delight. She nodded and smiled toward a tall man who was evidently
looking for her, and took no notice of the Frenchman's apologies.
"Who is that?" asked the young man. "I see him everywhere lately."
"A mere English gentleman, Mr. Paul Howard Alexis," replied the
lady.
The Frenchman raised his eyebrows. He knew better. This was no plain
English gentleman. He bowed and took his leave. M. de Chauxville of
the French Embassy was