Chapter XXXII

The Marchesa, as might have been expected, descended upon Melissa at once--upon the afternoon of the day following the supper-party, to be exact--in pursuit of explanations, and with recrimination in her eye.

“Well,” said she, directly the door had closed and Melissa had courteously drawn forward a chair for her. “I will say--I was never so disgusted with a woman in all my life! And for _me_--my good girl--that is saying quite a bit. Quite--a--bit! What in the world was the matter with you? You might have been a Quaker. Not that you looked it--I haven’t a word to say about the way you looked ... all that black and flesh-color--excellent! Extremely seductive--without being vulgar! But your conversation--I flatter you by giving it such a name! The merest school-girl monosyllables. Not a particle of charm ... not a flicker of esprit ... not a shimmer of wit ... not a vestige of allure! Will you tell me--” demanded the Marchesa, wagging a furious little forefinger under Melissa’s nose--“how you expect to captivate any man, with no more effort than you put forth last night? Do you expect Roderick to fall into your lap?... Without your lifting a finger? Do you intend....”

“Please!” said Melissa, desperately.

“Well?” said the Marchesa and sat glaring.

“I was not trying--” said Melissa, “to captivate--any one.”

“Quite obvious!” the Marchesa snapped out and blew her nose and sniffed in ungoverned contempt. “If it hadn’t been for me--he’d never have looked at you twice--as it is--you’ll have to exert yourself to keep the ground I gained for you. When I think what the two of us could do--with my brain and your looks--with my experience and your youth ... nom d’un nom d’un nom!” shrilled the Marchesa suddenly in a passion of impotent annoyance ... “it is enough to infuriate a saint! Which I am not--and never was, I’m glad to say!” The last reflection soothed her somewhat. She cackled briefly on the heels of it and sat looking at Melissa for reply.

Melissa, hands tightly folded in her lap, looked back. Without a word.

“Well--” said the Marchesa imperiously, “for a young woman whose constant conversation in delirium--when one is supposed to be frank, if ever--was of one man--who broke her engagement to another man, deliberately,--in order only to ... I will say, Melissa--that your behavior last night was--utterly ridiculous! How do you explain it? Come!...”

“I do not explain it,” said Melissa, low-voiced and unhappy.

The Marchesa shook out the folds of one of her absurd little handkerchiefs and crossed her wrists and ankles.

“Oh, yes, you do!” she corrected. “Don’t forget--I was to know everything--at once! If there’s anything connected with Roderick’s return which you have not told me ... if I have not your entire confidence, you are not living up to the spirit of our agreement. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes,” said Melissa, “that is so.”

“Ha!” said the Marchesa in triumph. “You have a sense of honor, I admit. It’s as rare in a woman as thorns on a violet--and almost as unnecessary ... however--I appeal to it in the present instance! I wish you to tell me--why, having been mad to meet Roderick in the first place--completely obsessed with the thought of him--you behave, when you do meet him, as if he were--of no importance whatsoever--any casual acquaintance--just an average young man--in brief--nobody!”

Melissa’s thoughts swarmed and settled like bees--a thousand potential stings. Her head was heavy with want of sleep--with endless and futile conjecture. She said in a sudden mad desire to destroy the web which her own folly had woven about her.... “Suppose I told you--it was because--your nephew when I came to meet him--was not--Mister Roderick ... at all....”

The Marchesa stared for a long moment. Then broke into the thinnest of reassuring cachinnations.

“He _has_ gotten a bit stout,” she admitted. “And that blond amiable type seems to lose its hair very early, somehow. I have given Roderick my own tonic--(from a marvelous Frenchman, the best hairdresser in Paris) ... and implored him to use it ... but he’s simply too lazy. However--my dear--do you mean to say--you can’t be such a ridiculous idealist! He’s just what he always was--an utter dear--with a nice sense of humor ... and if he _is_ going a bit bald and taking on weight, why all the more reason why you’ll never be worried with other women ... surely that’s an advantage!”

Melissa sat mute--without hope. Before a cul-de-sac ... a blind alley. No good trying to tell--what she hadn’t even a picture to substantiate. Obviously, no good exposing her heart for the fleshing of the Marchesa’s talons, merely.

She said more cautiously--poor Melissa, who had no longer any room for scorn!... “He is very charming. I’m sorry I was so--stupid--last night.”

“There!” said the Marchesa ... “that’s more like it!” Actually she leaned over and patted Melissa’s arm. Actually the hawk-eyes seemed to soften. “I’m very fond of Roderick,” his aunt admitted with, for her, unbelievable simplicity. “I always have been. He’s a fool--but he’s a sweet fool. He has a wonderful nature. I’d like to see him married. He might not enjoy it--but it would be good for him. I don’t want him to be lonely--when he’s older ...” she looked down at her small wrinkled hands where diamonds burned coldly on ashen flesh,--“when he’s older--he may want some one....”

The telephone rang. Melissa rose to answer it.

“So--if that’s Roderick,” the Marchesa finished hurriedly--“and I dare say it is ... he seemed in spite of everything last night, to be tremendously taken with you ... why--don’t be absurd, Melissa ... tell him to come up!”

Melissa couldn’t very well tell Roderick to come up, because he wasn’t near enough. He was telephoning, he said, from his club, and he wanted to know how she did. Very well, Melissa thanked him and succeeded in sounding appreciative, so that the Marchesa, listening avidly, nodded approval and gestured for further by-play.

“I wish,” said Roderick, “you’d consider dining with me, to-night....” Melissa considered, motionless.

“What on earth!” hissed the Marchesa, “he’ll think you’ve fainted--stop staring ... and tell him you’ll do whatever he likes!”

Melissa turned back to the mouthpiece.

“I will do,” she said softly but clearly, “whatever you like.”

A smile twitched the corners of her mouth. Her eyes smoldered.

Roderick said he couldn’t ask for more.

“You shan’t have less,” said Melissa.

The Marchesa applauded in dumb-show. Her old eyes lightened like sparks through smoke.

“At seven?” asked Roderick. He could be heard, a choppy kind of crackle, beyond the instrument.

“At seven--” said Melissa.

“Is it dinner?” demanded the Marchesa, hushed but insistent. “Tell him you’ll drive to some place up the river--no atmosphere in town....”

“Can’t we drive--” asked Melissa sweetly, “to some place up the river...? There’s no air left in town.”

The Marchesa snickered, and settled her hat at a smarter angle.

“Ra-ther!” said Roderick. “You don’t know how I’m looking forward to seeing you--”

“That’s very nice of you,” said Melissa.

“Say--‘_I_, too!’” whispered the Marchesa, pulling forward the curl above her left ear.

“I too,” said Melissa--and broke the connection before Roderick could speak again.

“Was it something,” inquired the Marchesa eagerly--“about his hating to have to wait--till to-night?”

“Something to that effect,” said Melissa.

The Marchesa adjusted the inevitable black velvet neck-band and drew the tip of her little finger delicately along her lower lip.

“They don’t change very much,” she observed with an arch slow smile,--“the cliches of emotion!”