The Title Market | Page 9

voice was fresh in its
timbre, enthusiastic in its inflection.
"Henri," she said, "you had better be here at three. The steamer sails at
four, and an hour will not give me any too much time. Have William
come for Celeste and the steamer things at two. The Panhard will be
best, as there is plenty of room in the tonneau." Then she ran lightly up
the steps and into the house.
The first impression of a visitor upon entering the hall might have been
of emptiness. In contrast to the over-elaborateness characteristic of all
too many American homes and hotels, obtruding their highly colored,
gold-laden ornament, the Randolph house rather inclined toward an
austerity of decoration. But after the first general impression, more
careful observation revealed the extreme luxury of appointments and
details. The one flaw--if one might call it such--was that every article in
the entire house was spotlessly, perfectly brand-new. The Persian rugs,

pinkish red in coloring and made expressly to tone in with the gray
white marble of the hall, were direct from the looms. The banister, of
beautiful simplicity, was as newly wrought as the stainless velvet with
which the hand-rail was covered. From the hall opened faultlessly
executed rooms, each correctly adhering to the "period" that had been
selected. The library was possibly more furnished than the rest of the
house; but even here the touch of a magician's wand might have
produced the bookcases of Circassian walnut ready filled with evenly
matched, leather bound, finely tooled volumes. It would have been a
relief to see a few shabby, old-calf folios, a few more common and
every-day, in cloth or buckram!
On the mind of a carping critic the universal newness might have
forced the question, "Where did the family live before they came here?
Did all their accumulation of personal belongings burn with an old
homestead? Or did they start fresh with their new house, coming from
nowhere?" One could imagine their having superintended the
moving-in of crates and boxes innumerable, but the idea of vans piled
with heterogeneous personal effects that had accumulated through
years---- Impossible!
As Mrs. Randolph and her daughter entered, a servant opened the doors
leading into the dining-room, and Mrs. Randolph turned at once in that
direction.
"You don't want to go upstairs before luncheon, do you, Nina?"
"Yes, for a moment, Mamma. I want to speak to Celeste about the
things for my steamer trunk." Her mother suggested sending a servant,
but Nina had already gone. She entered an elevator that in contrast to
the severity of the hall looked like a gilt bird cage with mirrors set
between the bars, pushed a button, and mounted two flights.
On emerging, she went into her own bedroom, which, from the
Aubusson carpet to the Dresden and ormolu appliques, might have
arrived in a bonbon box direct from the avenue de l'Opéra in Paris. At
the present moment two steamer trunks stood gaping in the middle of
the floor, tissue paper was scattered about on various chairs, the

dressing-table was bare of silver, and a traveling bag displayed a row of
gold bottle and brush tops. Nina threw her packages on a couch already
littered with empty boxes, wrapping-paper, new books and various
other articles.
"Have the other trunks gone, Celeste?"
"Yes, Mademoiselle."
"Any messages for me?"
"Mr. Derby telephoned that he would be here soon after lunch. Miss
Lee also telephoned. And Mr. Travers."
Nina listened, half absently, except possibly for a flickering interest at
the mention of Mr. Derby. She went into an adjoining room that had a
deep plunge bath of white marble, and a white bear rug on the floor. A
sliding panel in the wall disclosed a safe, from which she gathered
together several velvet boxes, and carried them to her maid.
"Are these all that Mademoiselle will take?"
"Yes, that is enough--I don't know, though, the emerald pendant looks
well on gray dresses." She got another velvet box and threw it on the
floor. "I ordered the Panhard to be here for you at two o'clock. They
can put the trunks in the tonneau. My stateroom is 'B,' yours is 107."
Quickly as she had entered, she was gone again, into the elevator and
down to join her mother.
"Really, Nina," Mrs. Randolph said as soon as her daughter was seated,
"I can't see what you want to go to Rome for. I am sure it's more
comfortable here. I hate visiting, myself." As she spoke she set straight
a piece of silver that to her critical eye seemed an eighth of an inch out
of line.
"But, Mamma, you know how keen I have always been to see Aunt
Eleanor's home. Being with her can hardly seem visiting; and Uncle

Sandro----"
"What your aunt ever