“Is Miss Floyd at home?”

The questioner was Mrs. Verrier, who had just alighted from her carriage at the door of the house in Columbia Avenue inhabited by Miss Floyd and her chaperon.

The maid replied that Miss Floyd had not yet returned, but had left a message begging Mrs. Verrier to wait for her.  The visitor was accordingly ushered to the drawing-room on the first floor.

This room, the staircase, the maid, all bore witness to Miss Floyd’s simplicity ­like the Romney dress of Mount Vernon.  The colour of the walls and the hangings, the lines of the furniture, were all subdued, even a little austere.  Quiet greens and blues, mingled with white, showed the artistic mind; the chairs and sofas were a trifle stiff and straight legged; the electric fittings were of a Georgian plainness to match the Colonial architecture of the house; the beautiful self-coloured carpet was indeed Persian and costly, but it betrayed its costliness only to the expert.  Altogether, the room, one would have said, of any bourse moyenne, with an eye for beauty.  Fine photographs also, of Italian and Dutch pictures, suggested travel, and struck the cultivated cosmopolitan note.

Mrs. Verrier looked round it with a smile.  It was all as unpretending as the maid who ushered her upstairs.  Daphne would have no men-servants in her employ.  What did two ladies want with them, in a democratic country?  But Mrs. Verrier happened to know that Daphne’s maid-servants were just as costly in their degree as the drawing-room carpet.  Chosen for her in London with great care, attracted to Washington by enormous wages, these numerous damsels played their part in the general “simplicity” effect; but on the whole Mrs. Verrier believed that Daphne’s household was rather more expensive than that of other rich people who employed men.

She walked through the room, looking absently at the various photographs and engravings, till her attention was excited by an easel and a picture upon it in the back drawing-room.  She went up to it with a muttered exclamation.

“So she bought it!  Daphne’s amazing!”

For what she saw before her was a masterpiece ­an excessively costly masterpiece ­of the Florentine school, smuggled out of Italy, to the wrath of the Italian Government, some six months before this date, and since then lost to general knowledge.  Rumour had given it first to a well-known collection at Boston; then to another at Philadelphia; yet here it was in the possession of a girl of two-and-twenty of whom the great world was just ­but only just ­beginning to talk.

“How like Daphne!” thought her friend with malice.  The “simple” room, and the priceless picture carelessly placed in a corner of it, lest any one should really suppose that Daphne Floyd was an ordinary mortal.

Mrs. Verrier sat down at last in a chair fronting the picture and let herself fall into a reverie.  On this occasion she was dressed in black.  The lace strings of a hat crowned with black ostrich feathers were fastened under her chin by a diamond that sparkled in the dim greenish light of the drawing-room; the feathers of the hat were unusually large and drooping; they curled heavily round the thin neck and long, hollow-eyed face, so that its ivory whiteness, its fatigue, its fretful beauty were framed in and emphasized by them; her bloodless hands lay upon her lap, and the folds of the sweeping dress drawn round her showed her slenderness, or rather her emaciation.  Two years before this date Madeleine Verrier had been a great beauty, and she had never yet reconciled herself to physical losses which were but the outward and visible sign of losses “far more deeply interfused.”  As she sat apparently absorbed in thought before the picture, she moved, half consciously, so that she could no longer see herself in a mirror opposite.

Yet her thoughts were in truth much engaged with Daphne and Daphne’s proceedings.  It was now nearly three weeks since Roger Barnes had appeared on the horizon.  General Hobson had twice postponed his departure for England, and was still “enduring hardness” in a Washington hotel.  Why his nephew should not be allowed to manage his courtship, if it was a courtship, for himself, Mrs. Verrier did not understand.  There was no love lost between herself and the General, and she made much mock of him in her talks with Daphne.  However, there he was; and she could only suppose that he took the situation seriously and felt bound to watch it in the interests of the young man’s absent mother.

Was it serious?  Certainly Daphne had been committing herself a good deal.  The question was whether she had not been committing herself more than the young man had been doing on his side.  That was the astonishing part of it.  Mrs. Verrier could not sufficiently admire the skill with which Roger Barnes had so far played his part; could not sufficiently ridicule her own lack of insight, which at her first meeting with him had pronounced him stupid.  Stupid he might be in the sense that it was of no use to expect from him the kind of talk on books, pictures, and first principles which prevailed in Daphne’s circle.  But Mrs. Verrier thought she had seldom come across a finer sense of tactics than young Barnes had so far displayed in his dealings with Daphne.  If he went on as he had begun, the probability was that he would succeed.

Did she, Madeleine Verrier, wish him to succeed?

Daphne had grown tragically necessary to her, in this world of American society ­in that section of it, at any rate, in which she desired to move, where the widow of Leopold Verrier was always conscious of the blowing of a cold and hostile breath.  She was not excluded, but she was not welcome; she was not ostracized, but she had lost consideration.  There had been something picturesque and appealing in her husband; something unbearably tragic in the manner of his death.  She had braved it out by staying in America, instead of losing herself in foreign towns; and she had thereby proclaimed that she had no guilty sense of responsibility, no burden on her conscience; that she had only behaved as a thousand other women would have behaved, and without any cruel intention at all.  But she knew all the same that the spectators of what had happened held her for a cruel woman, and that there were many, and those the best, who saw her come with distaste and go without regret; and it was under that knowledge, in spite of indomitable pride, that her beauty had withered in a year.

And at the moment when the smart of what had happened to her ­personally and socially ­was at its keenest; when, after a series of quarrels, she had separated herself from the imperious mother who had been her evil genius throughout her marriage, she had made friends, unexpectedly, owing to a chance meeting at a picture-gallery, with Daphne Floyd.  Some element in Daphne’s nature had attracted and disarmed her.  The proud, fastidious woman had given the girl her confidence ­eagerly, indiscriminately.  She had poured out upon her all that wild philosophy of “rights” which is still struggling in the modern mind with a crumbling ethic and a vanishing religion.  And she had found in Daphne a warm and passionate ally.  Daphne was nothing if not “advanced.”  She shrank, as Roger Barnes had perceived, from no question; she had never been forbidden, had never forbidden herself, any book that she had a fancy to read; and she was as ready to discuss the relative divorce laws of Massachusetts and Pennsylvania, as the girls of fifty years ago were to talk of the fashions, or “Evangeline.”  In any disputed case, moreover, between a man and a woman, Daphne was hotly and instinctively on the side of the woman.  She had thrown herself, therefore, with ardour into the defence of Mrs. Verrier; and for her it was not the wife’s desertion, but the husband’s suicide which had been the cruel and indefensible thing.  All these various traits and liberalisms had made her very dear to Madeleine Verrier.

Now, as that lady sat in her usual drooping attitude, wondering what Washington would be like for her when even Daphne Floyd was gone from it, the afternoon sun stole through the curtains of the window on the street and touched some of the furniture and engravings in the inner drawing-room.  Suddenly Mrs. Verrier started in her chair.  A face had emerged thrown out upon the shadows by the sun-finger ­the countenance of a handsome young Jew, as Rembrandt had once conceived it.  Rare and high intelligence, melancholy, and premonition: ­they were there embodied, so long as the apparition lasted.

The effect on Mrs. Verrier was apparently profound.  She closed her eyes; her lips quivered; she leaned back feebly in her chair, breathing a name.  The crisis lasted a few minutes, while the momentary vision faded and the sun-light crept on.  The eyelids unclosed at last, slowly and painfully, as though shrinking from what might greet the eyes beneath them.  But the farther wall was now in deep shade.  Mrs. Verrier sat up; the emotion which had mastered her like a possession passed away; and rising hurriedly, she went back to the front drawing-room.  She had hardly reached it when Miss Floyd’s voice was heard upon the stairs.

Daphne entered the room in what appeared to be a fit of irritation.  She was scolding the parlour-maid, whose high colour and dignified silence proclaimed her both blameless and long-suffering.  At the sight of Mrs. Verrier Daphne checked herself with an effort and kissed her friend rather absently.

“Dear Madeleine! ­very good of you to wait.  Have they given you tea?  I suppose not.  My household seems to have gone mad this afternoon.  Sit down.  Some tea, Blount, at once.”

Mrs. Verrier sank into a corner of the sofa, while Daphne, with an “ouf!” of fatigue, took off her hat, and threw herself down at the other end, her small feet curled up beneath her.  Her half-frowning eyes gave the impression that she was still out of temper and on edge.

“Where have you been?” asked her companion quietly.

“Listening to a stuffy debate in the Senate,” said Daphne without a smile.

“The Senate.  What on earth took you there?”

“Well, why shouldn’t I go? ­why does one do anything?  It was just a debate ­horribly dull ­trusts, or something of that kind.  But there was a man attacking the President ­and the place was crowded.  Ugh! the heat was intolerable!”

“Who took you?”

Daphne named an under-secretary ­an agreeable and ambitious man, who had been very much in her train during the preceding winter, and until Roger Barnes appeared upon the scene.

“I thought until I got your message that you were going to take Mr. Barnes motoring up the river.”

“Mr. Barnes was engaged.”  Daphne gave the information tersely, rousing herself afterwards to make tea, which appeared at that moment.

“He seems to have been a good deal engaged this week,” said Mrs. Verrier, when they were alone again.

Daphne made no reply.  And Mrs. Verrier, after observing her for a moment, resumed: 

“I suppose it was the Bostonians?”

“I suppose so.  What does it matter?” The tone was dry and sharp.

“Daphne, you goose!” laughed Mrs. Verrier, “I believe this is the very first invitation of theirs he has accepted at all.  He was written to about them by an old friend ­his Eton master, or somebody of that sort.  And as they turned up here on a visit, instead of his having to go and look for them at Boston, of course he had to call upon them.”

“I dare say.  And of course he had to go to tea with them yesterday, and he had to take them to Arlington this afternoon!  I suppose I’d better tell you ­we had a quarrel on the subject last night.”

“Daphne! ­don’t, for heaven’s sake, make him think himself too important!” cried Mrs. Verrier.

Daphne, with both elbows on the table, was slowly crunching a morsel of toast in her small white teeth.  She had a look of concentrated energy ­as of a person charged and overcharged with force of some kind, impatient to be let loose.  Her black eyes sparkled; impetuosity and will shone from them; although they showed also rims of fatigue, as if Miss Daphne’s nights had not of late been all they should be.  Mrs. Verrier was chiefly struck, however, by the perception that for the first time Daphne was not having altogether her own way with the world.  Madeleine had not observed anything of the same kind in her before.  In general she was in entire command both of herself and of the men who surrounded her.  She made a little court out of them, and treated them en despote.  But Roger Barnes had not lent himself to the process; he had not played the game properly; and Daphne’s sleep had been disturbed for the first time in history.

It had been admitted very soon between the two friends ­without putting it very precisely ­that Daphne was interested in Roger Barnes.  Mrs. Verrier believed that the girl had been originally carried off her feet by the young man’s superb good looks, and by the natural distinction ­evident in all societies ­which they conferred upon him.  Then, no doubt, she had been piqued by his good-humoured, easy way ­the absence of any doubt of himself, of tremor, of insistence.  Mrs. Verrier said to herself ­not altogether shrewdly ­that he had no nerves, or no heart; and Daphne had not yet come across the genus.  Her lovers had either possessed too much heart ­like Captain Boyson ­or a lack of coolness, when it really came to the point of grappling with Daphne and her millions, as in the case of a dozen she could name.  Whereby it had come about that Daphne’s attention had been first provoked, then peremptorily seized by the Englishman; and Mrs. Verrier began now to suspect that deeper things were really involved.

Certainly there was a good deal to puzzle the spectator.  That the English are a fortune-hunting race may be a popular axiom; but it was quite possible, after all, that Roger Barnes was not the latest illustration of it.  It was quite possible, also, that he had a sweet-heart at home, some quiet, Quakerish girl who would never wave in his face the red flags that Daphne was fond of brandishing.  It was equally possible that he was merely fooling with Daphne ­that he had seen girls he liked better in New York, and was simply killing time till a sportsman friend of whom he talked should appear on the scene and take him off to shoot moose and catch trout in the province of Quebec.  Mrs. Verrier realized that, for all his lack of subtlety and the higher conversation, young Barnes had managed astonishingly to keep his counsel.  His “simplicity,” like Daphne’s, seemed to be of a special type.

And yet ­there was no doubt that he had devoted himself a great deal.  Washington society had quickly found him out; he had been invited to all the most fastidious houses, and was immensely in request for picnics and expeditions.  But he had contrived, on the whole, to make all these opportunities promote the flirtation with Daphne.  He had, in fact, been enough at her beck and call to make her the envy of a young society with whom the splendid Englishman promised to become the rage, and not enough to silence or wholly discourage other claimants on his time.

This no doubt accounted for the fact that the two charming Bostonians, Mrs. Maddison and her daughter, who had but lately arrived in Washington and made acquaintance with Roger Barnes, were still evidently in ignorance of what was going on.  They were not initiated.  They had invited young Barnes in the innocence of their hearts, without inviting Daphne Floyd, whom they did not previously know.  And the young man had seen fit to accept their invitation.  Hence the jealousy that was clearly burning in Daphne, that she was not indeed even trying to hide from the shrewd eyes of her friend.

Mrs. Verrier’s advice not to make Roger Barnes “too important” had called up a flash of colour in the girl’s cheeks.  But she did not resent it in words; rather her silence deepened, till Mrs. Verrier stretched out a hand and laughingly turned the small face towards her that she might see what was in it.

“Daphne!  I really believe you’re in love with him!”

“Not at all,” said Daphne, her eyelids flickering; “I never know what to talk to him about.”

“As if that mattered!”

“Elsie Maddison always knows what to talk to him about, and he chatters to her the whole time.”

Mrs. Verrier paused a moment, then said:  “Do you suppose he came to America to marry money?”

“I haven’t an idea.”

“Do you suppose he knows that you ­are not exactly a pauper?”

Daphne drew herself away impatiently.  “I really don’t suppose anything, Madeleine.  He never talks about money, and I should think he had plenty himself.”

Mrs. Verrier replied by giving an outline of the financial misfortunes of Mr. Barnes pere, as they had been described to her by another English traveller in Washington.

Daphne listened indifferently.  “He can’t be very poor or he wouldn’t behave as he does.  And he is to inherit the General’s property.  He told me so.”

“And it wouldn’t matter to you, Daphne, if you did think a man had married you for money?”

Daphne had risen, and was pacing the drawing-room floor, her hands clasped behind her back.  She turned a cloudy face upon her questioner.  “It would matter a great deal, if I thought it had been only for money.  But then, I hope I shouldn’t have been such a fool as to marry him.”

“But you could bear it, if the money counted for something?”

“I’m not an idiot!” said the girl, with energy.  “With whom doesn’t money count for something?  Of course a man must take money into consideration.”  There was a curious touch of arrogance in the gesture which accompanied the words.

“’How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho! ­How pleasant it is to have money,’” said Mrs. Verrier, quoting, with a laugh.  “Yes, I dare say, you’d be very reasonable, Daphne, about that kind of thing.  But I don’t think you’d be a comfortable wife, dear, all the same.”

“What do you mean?”

“You might allow your husband to spare a little love to your money; you would be for killing him if he ever looked at another woman!”

“You mean I should be jealous?” asked Daphne, almost with violence.  “You are quite right there.  I should be very jealous.  On that point I should ‘find quarrel in a straw.’”

Her cheeks had flushed a passionate red.  The eyes which she had inherited from her Spanish grandmother blazed above them.  She had become suddenly a woman of Andalusia and the South, moved by certain primitive forces in the blood.

Madeleine Verrier held out her hands, smiling.

“Come here, little wild cat.  I believe you are jealous of Elsie Maddison.”

Daphne approached her slowly, and slowly dropped into a seat beside her friend, her eyes still fixed and splendid.  But as she looked into them Madeleine Verrier saw them suddenly dimmed.

“Daphne! you are in love with him!”

The girl recovered herself, clenching her small hands.  “If I am,” she said resolutely, “it is strange how like the other thing it is!  I don’t know whether I shall speak to him to-night.”

“To-night?” Mrs. Verrier looked a little puzzled.

“At the White House.  You’re going, of course.”

“No, I am not going.”  The voice was quiet and cold.  “I am not asked.”

Daphne, vexed with herself, touched her friend’s hand caressingly.  “It will be just a crush, dear.  But I promised various people to go.”

“And he will be there?”

“I suppose so.”  Daphne turned her head away, and then sprang up.  “Have you seen the picture?”

Mrs. Verrier followed her into the inner room, where the girl gave a laughing and triumphant account of her acquisition, the agents she had employed, the skill with which it had been conveyed out of Italy, the wrath of various famous collectors, who had imagined that the fight lay between them alone, when they found the prize had been ravished from them.  Madeleine Verrier was very intelligent, and the contrast, which the story brought out, between the girl’s fragile youth and the strange and passionate sense of power which breathed from her whenever it became a question of wealth and the use of it, was at no point lost upon her companion.

Daphne would not allow any further talk of Roger Barnes.  Her chaperon, Mrs. Phillips, presently appeared, and passed through rather a bad quarter of an hour while the imperious mistress of the house inquired into certain invitations and card-leavings that had not been managed to her liking.  Then Daphne sat down to write a letter to a Girls’ Club in New York, of which she was President ­where, in fact, she occasionally took the Singing Class, with which she had made so much play at her first meeting with Roger Barnes.  She had to tell them that she had just engaged a holiday house for them, to which they might go in instalments throughout the summer.  She would pay the rent, provide a lady-superintendent, and make herself responsible for all but food expenses.  Her small face relaxed ­became quite soft and charming ­as she wrote.

“But, my dear,” cried Mrs. Phillips in dismay, as Daphne handed her the letter to read, “you have taken the house on Lake George, and you know the girls had all set their hearts on that place in the White Mountains!”

Daphne’s lips tightened.  “Certainly I have taken the house on Lake George,” she said, as she carefully wiped her pen.  “I told them I should.”

“But, my dear, they are so tired of Lake George!  They have been there three years running.  And you know they subscribe a good deal themselves.”

“Very well! ­then let them do without my help.  I have inquired into the matter.  The house on Lake George is much more suitable than the White Mountains farm, and I have written to the agent.  The thing’s done.”

Mrs. Phillips argued a little more, but Daphne was immovable.

Mrs. Verrier, watching the two, reflected, as she had often done before, that Mrs. Phillips’s post was not particularly enviable.  Daphne treated her in many ways with great generosity, paid her highly, grudged her no luxury, and was always courteous to her in public.  But in private Daphne’s will was law, and she had an abrupt and dictatorial way of asserting it that brought the red back into Mrs. Phillips’s faded cheeks.  Mrs. Verrier had often expected her to throw up her post.  But there was no doubt something in Daphne’s personality which made life beside her too full of colour to be lightly abandoned.

Daphne presently went upstairs to take off her walking-dress, and Mrs. Phillips, with a rather troubled face, began to tidy the confusion of letters she had left behind her.

“I dare say the girls won’t mind,” said Madeleine Verrier, kindly.

Mrs. Phillips started, and her mild lips quivered a little.  Daphne’s charities were for Daphne an amusement; for this gentle, faded woman, who bore all the drudgery of them, they were the chief attraction of life in Daphne’s house.  Mrs. Phillips loved the club-girls, and the thought of their disappointment pained her.

“I must try and put it to them,” was her patient reply.

“Daphne must always have her way,” Madeleine went on, smiling.  “I wonder what she’ll do when she marries.”

Mrs. Phillips looked up quickly.

“I hope it’ll be the right man, Mrs. Verrier.  Of course, with anyone so ­so clever ­and so used to managing everything for herself ­one would be a little anxious.”

Mrs. Verrier’s expression changed.  A kind of wildness ­fanaticism ­invaded it, as of one recalling a mission.  “Oh, well, nothing is irrevocable nowadays,” she said, almost with violence.  “Still I hope Daphne won’t make a mistake.”

Mrs. Phillips looked at her companion, at first in astonishment.  Then a change passed over her face.  With a cold excuse she left Mrs. Verrier alone.