The Title Market | Page 8

"To please me, do not send
the picture. I can sell the jewels and have false stones put in their places.
We need not have any one know. But I don't want to remain in the
duke's debt!"
"The picture is already in his possession."
"In his possession? But how?"
"He drove over here just now, followed me in his motor-car, and took it
back with him."
The princess was evidently frightened. "What are his reasons?" she said
to herself, yet audibly.
Her husband looked at her, his head a little on one side, then he said
banteringly: "My dear, you Americans are too analytical. You always
look for a motive. Life is not of motive over here. Have you not learned
that in all these years? We act from impulse, as the mood takes us--we
have not the hidden thought that you are always looking for."
"You speak for yourself, Sandro mio, but all are not like you. However,
since the picture is gone--and since you have made that
arrangement--let it be. I may do Scorpa injustice; he has always
professed friendship for you--as indeed who has not?" She looked at
him with the softened glance that one sees in a mother's face.
Sansevero seated himself at the desk and took up the photograph of
Nina. "When will she arrive?" he asked buoyantly; then with sudden
inspiration, "Write to Giovanni and ask him to hurry home. If Nina
should fancy him, what a prize!"
The princess frowned. "On account of her money, you mean?"
"Ah, but one must think of that! We have no children; all this goes to
Giovanni--with Nina's immense fortune it would be very well. We

could all live as it used to be; there are the apartments on the second
floor in Rome, and the west wing here. I can think of nothing more
fitting or delightful. Has she grown pretty?"
"I don't know that you would call her pretty," mused the princess.
"Besides you, my dearest, a beauty might seem plain!" His wife tried to
look indifferent, but she was pleased, nevertheless.
"Tell me, Sandro, you flatterer, but tell me honestly, am I still pretty?
No, really? Will Nina think me the same, or will her thought be 'How
my Aunt has gone off'?"
Melodramatically he seized her wrists and drew her to the window;
placing her in the full light of the sun, he peered with mock tragedy
into her face. "Let me see. Your hair--no, not a gray one! The gold of
your hair at least I have not squandered--yet."
"Don't, dear." She would have moved away, but he held her.
"Your face is thinner, but that only shows better its beautiful bones. Ah,
now your smile is just as delicious--but don't wrinkle your forehead
like that; it is full of lines. So--that is better. You make the eyes sad
sometimes; eyes should be the windows that let light into the soul; they
should be glad and admit only sunshine." Then with one of his
lightning transitions of mood, he added, not without a ring of emotion,
"Mia povera bella."
But Eleanor reached up and took his face between her hands. "As for
you," she said, "you are always just a boy. Sometimes it is impossible
to believe you are older than I--I think I should have been your
mother."
CHAPTER III
NINA
A ponderous, glossy, red Limousine turned in under the wrought

bronze portico of one of the palatial houses of upper Fifth Avenue. As
the car stopped, the face of a woman of about forty appeared at its
window. Her expression was one of fretful annoyance, as though the
footman who had sprung off the box and hurried up the steps to ring the
front doorbell had, in his haste, stumbled purposely. The look she gave
him, as he held the door open for her to alight, rebuked plainly his
awkward stupidity.
Yet, in spite of Mrs. Randolph's petulant expression, it was evident that
she had distinct claims to prettiness, though of the carefully prolonged
variety. The art of the masseuse was visible in that curious swollen
smoothness of the skin which gives an effect of spilled candle-wax--its
lack of wrinkles never to be mistaken for the freshness of youth. Much
also might be said of the skill with which the "original color" of her
hair had been preserved. She was very well "done," indeed; every detail
proclaimed expenditure of time--other people's--and money--her own.
She trotted, rather than walked, as though bored beyond the measure of
endurance and yet in a hurry. Following her was a slim, fair-haired
young girl, who, leaving the footman to gather up a number of parcels,
turned to the chauffeur. Even in giving an order, there was a winning
grace in her lack of self-consciousness, and her