Chapter Six


How can I tell of the lady of the pongee--now that I beheld
her? Do you think that, when she came that night to the salon
where we were awaiting her, I hesitated to lift my eyes to her
face because of a fear that it would not be so beautiful as the
misty sweet face I had dreamed would be hers? Ah, no! It was the
beauty which was in her heart that had made me hers; yet I knew
that she was beautiful. She was fair, that is all I can tell. I
cannot tell of her eyes, her height, her mouth; I saw her
through those clouds of the dust of gold--she was all glamour
and light. It was to be seen that everyone fell in love with her
at once; that the chef d'orchestre came and played to her; and
the waiters--you should have observed them!--made silly,
tender faces through the great groves of flowers with which Poor
Jr. had covered the table. It was most difficult for me to
address her, to call her "Miss Landry." It seemed impossible
that she should have a name, or that I should speak to her
except as "you."

Even, I cannot tell very much of her mother, except that she was
adorable because of her adorable relationship. She was florid,
perhaps, and her conversation was of commonplaces and echoes,
like my own, for I could not talk. It was Poor Jr. who made the
talking, and in spite of the spell that was on me, I found
myself full of admiration and sorrow for that brave fellow. He
was all gaieties and little stories in a way I had never heard
before; he kept us in quiet laughter; in a word, he was
charming. The beautiful lady seemed content to listen with the