"He has dared nothing that he ought not to," Penelope interrupted. "His manners are altogether too perfect. It is the chill faultlessness of the man which is so depressing. Can't you understand," she added, speaking in a tone of greater intensity, "that that is why I hate him? Hush!"She gripped his sleeve warningly. There was suddenly the murmur of voices and the trailing of skirts. A little party seemed to have invaded the winter garden--a little party of the principal guests. The Duchess herself came first, and her fingers were resting upon the arm of Prince Maiyo. She stopped to speak to Penelope, and turned afterwards to Somerfield. Prince Maiyo held out his hand for Penelope's programme.
"You will spare me some dances?" he pleaded. "I come late, but it is not my fault."She yielded the programme to him without a word.
"Those with an X,'" she said, "are free. One has to protect oneself."He smiled as he wrote his own name, unrebuked, in four places.
"Our first dance, then, is number 10," he said. "It is the next but one. I shall find you here, perhaps?""Here or amongst the chaperons," she answered, as they passed on.
"You admire Miss Morse?" the Duchess asked him.
"Greatly," the Prince answered. "She is natural, she has grace, and she has what I do not find so much in this country--would you say charm?""It is an excellent word," the Duchess answered. "I am inclined to agree with you. Her aunt, with whom she lives, is a confirmed invalid, so she is a good deal with me. Her mother was my half-sister."The Prince bowed.
"She will marry, I suppose?" he said.
"Naturally," the Duchess answered. "Sir Charles, poor fellow, is a hopeless victim. I should not be surprised if she married him, some day or other."The Prince looked behind for a moment; then he stopped to admire a magnificent orchid.
"It will be great good fortune for Sir Charles Somerfield," he said.
Somerfield scarcely waited until the little party were out of sight.
"Penelope," he exclaimed, "you've given that man four dances!""I am afraid," she answered, "that I should have given him eight if he had asked for them."He rose to his feet.
"Will you allow me to take you back to your aunt?" he asked.
"No!" she answered. "My aunt is quite happy without me, and Ishould prefer to remain here."
He sat down, fuming.
"Penelope, what do you mean by it?" he demanded.
"And what do you mean by asking me what I mean by it?" she replied. "You haven't any especial right that I know of.""I wish to Heaven I had!" he answered with a noticeable break in his voice.
There was a short silence. She turned away; she felt that she was suddenly surrounded by a cloud of passion.
"Penelope," he pleaded,--She stopped him.
"You must not say another word," she declared. "I mean it,--you must not.""I have waited for some time," he reminded her.
"All the more reason why you should wait until the right time,"she insisted. "Be patient for a little longer, do. Just now Ifeel that I need a friend more than I have ever needed one before. Don't let me lose the one I value most. In a few weeks' time you shall say whatever you like, and, at any rate, I will listen to you. Will you be content with that?""Yes!" he answered.
She laid her fingers upon his arm.
"I am dancing this with Captain Wilmot," she said. "Will you come and bring me back here afterwards, unless you are engaged?"The Prince found her alone in the winter garden, for Somerfield, when he had seen him coming, had stolen away. He came towards her quickly, with the smooth yet impetuous step which singled him out at once as un-English. He had the whole room to cross to come to her, and she watched him all the way. The corners of his lips were already curved in a slight smile. His eyes were bright, as one who looks upon something which he greatly desires. Slender though his figure was, his frame was splendidly knit, and he carried himself as one of the aristocrats of the world. As he approached, she scanned his face curiously. She became critical, anxiously but ineffectively. There was not a feature in his face with which a physiognomist could have found fault.
"Dear young lady," he said, bowing low, "I come to you very humbly, for I am afraid that I am a deceiver. I shall rob you of your pleasure, I fear. I have put my name down for four dances, and, alas! I do not dance."She made room for him by her side.
"And I," she said, "am weary of dancing. One does nothing else, night after night. We will talk.""Talk or be silent," he answered softly. "Myself I believe that you are in need of silence. To be silent together is a proof of great friendship, is it not?"She nodded.
"It seems to me that I have been through so much the last fortnight." she said.
"You have suffered where you should not have suffered," he assented gravely. "I do not like your laws at all. At what they called the inquest your presence was surely not necessary! You were a woman and had no place there. You had," he added calmly, "so little to tell.""Nothing," she murmured.
"Life to me just now," he continued, "is so much a matter of comparison. It is for that, indeed, that I am here. You see, Ihave lived nearly all my life in my own country and only a very short time in Europe. Then my mother was an English lady, and my father a Japanese nobleman. Always I seem to be pulled two different ways, to be struggling to see things from two different points of view. But there is one subject in which I think I am wholly with my own country.""And that?" she asked.
"I do not think," he said, "that the rougher and more strenuous paths of life were meant to be trodden by your sex. Please do not misunderstand me," he went on earnestly. "I am not thinking of the paths of literature and of art, for there the perceptions of your sex are so marvellously acute that you indeed may often lead where we must follow. I am speaking of the more material things of life."She was suddenly conscious of a shiver which seemed to spread from her heart throughout her limbs. She sat quite still, gripping her little lace handkerchief in her fingers.
