Linda watched Pleydon as he met Markue in the middle of the room. He was dressed carelessly, improperly for the evening; but she forgave that as the result of indifference. The informal flannels and soft collar, too, suited the largeness of his being and gestures. There was a murmur of meeting, Susanna Noda smiled appealingly; and then, as Pleydon found a place on a divan, she at once contentedly sat on his lap. Watching her, Linda thought of a brilliant parrot; but that was only the effect of her color; for her face, with a tilted nose and wide golden eyes, generous warm lips, was charming. She lighted a cigarette, turned her graceful back on the room and company, and chatted in French to the composed sculptor.

Linda divined that he was the most impressive figure she had encountered; the quality of his indifference was beautiful and could only have come in the security of being a “tremendous swell.” That phrase described all for which she had cared most. It included everything that her mother had indicated as desirable and a lot that she, Linda, had added. Money, certainly, was an absolute necessity; but there were other things now that vaguely she desired. She tried to decide what they were.

Only the old inner confusion resulted, the emotion that might have been born in music; however, it was sharper than usual, and bred a new dissatisfaction with the easier accomplishments. Really it was very disturbing, for the pressure of her entire experience, all she had been told, could be exactly weighed and held. The term luxury, too, was revealing; it covered everything—except her present unformed longing.

There were still newcomers, and Linda was aware of a sudden constraint. A woman volubly French had appeared with a long pinkish-white dog in a blanket, and the three Arabians—she had learned that much—had risen with a concerted expression of surprise and displeasure. Their anxiety, though, was no more dramatic than that of the dog's proprietor. The gesture of her hands and lifted eyebrows were keenly expressive of her impatience with any one who couldn't accept, with her, her dog.

“Markue ought to have it out,” some one murmured. “Dogs, to high caste Mohammedans, are unclean animals.” Another added, “Worse than that, if it should touch them, they would have to make the pilgrimage to Mecca.”

Without any knowledge of the situation of Mecca, Linda yet realized that it must be a very long journey to result from the mere touch of a dog. She didn't wonder at the restrained excitement of the “colored” people. The situation was reduced to a sub-acid argument between the Frenchwoman and the Begum; Madame couldn't exist without her “p'tit.” The Oriental lady could not breathe a common air with the beast. The former managed a qualified triumph—the “p'tit” was caged with a chair in a corner, and the episode, for the moment, dropped.

Soon, however, Linda saw that the dog had wriggled out of captivity. It made a cautious progress to where the candy stood on a low stand and ran an appreciative tongue over the exposed sweet surfaces. Rapidly a sugared fig was snapped up. Linda held her breath; no one had noticed the animal yet—perhaps it would reach one of the objectors and she would have the thrill of witnessing the departure for Mecca.

But, as always, nothing so romantic occurred; the dog was discovered, and the Mohammedans, with a hurried politeness, made their salaams. Instead, a man with a quizzical scrutiny through glasses that made him resemble an owl, stopped before her.

“'Here we go 'round the mulberry-bush,'” he chanted. “Hello, Kate Greenaway. Have you had a drink?”

“Yes, thank you,” she replied sedately.

“Certified milk?”

“It was something with gin,” she particularized, “and too sweet.” He took the place beside her and solemnly recited a great many nursery rhymes. On the whole she liked him, deciding that he was very wicked. Soon he was holding her hand in both of his. “I know you're not real,” he proceeded. “Verlaine wrote you—'Les Ingenus':

“What if I'd kiss you?”

“Nothing,” she returned coldly.

“You're remarkable!” he exclaimed with enthusiasm. “If you are not already one of the celebrated beauties you're about to be. As cool as a fish! Look—Pleydon is going to rise and spill little Russia. Have you heard her sing Scriabine?” Linda ignored him in a sharp return of her interest in the big carelessly-dressed man. He put Susanna Noda aside and moved to the dim middle of the room. His features, Linda saw, were rugged and pronounced; he was very strong.

For a moment he stood gazing at the Winged Victory, his brow gathered into a frown, while he made a caressing gesture with his whole hand. Then he swung about and, from the heavy shadows of his face, he looked down at her. He was still for a disconcerting length of time, but through which Linda steadily met his interrogation. Then he bent over and seriously removed the man beside her.

“Adieu, Louis,” he said.

The weight of Pleydon's body depressed the entire divan. “An ordinary man,” he told her, “would ask how the devil you got here. Then he would take you to your home with some carefully chosen words for whatever parents you had. But I can see that all this is needless. You are an extremely immaculate person.

“That isn't necessarily admirable,” he added.

“I don't believe I am admirable at all,” Linda replied.

“How old are you?” he demanded abruptly.

She told him.

“Age doesn't exist for some women, they are eternal,” he continued. “You see, I call you a woman, but you are not, and neither are you a child. You are Art—Art the deathless,” his gaze strayed back to the Victory.

As she, too, looked at it, it seemed to Linda that the cast filled all the room with a swirl of great white wings and heroic robes. In an instant the incense and the dark colors, the uncertain pallid faces and bare shoulders, were swept away into a space through which she was dizzily borne. The illusion was so overpowering that involuntarily she caught at the heavy arm by her.