Page:The Smart Set (Volume 52, Number 4).djvu/13

Horace looked at her with a very vivid interest.

To begin with, he thought he had never seen so fascinating a woman. She was above muddle height, taller than the man who accompanied her, and walked with a grace and litheness that took his eye instantly. There was a spring in her steps that made her walk seem almost like a dance. She radiated an intense vitality. Her dark eves were full of flashing colors and her laugh more musical than anything he had heard. He watched her till she was lost in the throng. Then he sighed and presently turned to Effie.

“Who is that wonderful creature?” he demanded.

Effie looked at him in silence. This was a new Horace, startled out of his calm airs of superiority into being an eager, interested man, a tinge of red coloring his usually clear pallid skin. It was the Horace, in fact, which she had often hoped to see awakened to her own charms.

“Who is she?” he repeated.

“I don't know,” Effie said a little sullenly. I can’t know everybody who horns into a place like this.”

“She belongs here,” he said with conviction, “Effie, be sweet and find her out.”

He smiled at her for another woman’s sake more pleasantly than he had ever done for her own.

“That was a ravishing gown, just the thing to fill your column on the Evening Herald.”

“And what color was it, pray?” she asked.

“How do I know?” he returned. “I saw her face and that was all. Find out for me, Effie! Please, obstinate little redhead, tell me who she is!”

The tone, almost an endearing one, made her very bitterly disposed toward the radiant woman who had swept past her. How little men understand women, she thought, that this one should use such a tone for such a purpose. Or it might be, and this wounded her all the more, that he was utterly indifferent as to what construction she placed on his moods.

“What for?” she said. “What good will it do you? You can't know her.”

“Why not?” he flung back, nettled.

She shrugged her shoulders. He should suffer, too. “What has Meadowbrook in common with Bowlerville?”

“I knew she was Meadowbrook,” he cried, and passed over the slur as though 1ts source rendered it unworthy of notice.

“I shall find out. There are other newspaper men and women here besides you.” He smiled. “You're bluffing, Effie, you don’t know who she is.”

“I do,” the girl cried. “And I know the man she 1s with and all about both of them.”

“You'd much rather tell me yourself than for me to get it from a rival. Who are they?”

“The man's name is Wolfston Colman, one of the best poloists we ever had. Some people say it's only jealousy that keeps him from the team that's to play the Englishmen next week. He was an internationalist once.”

“And her name?” he begged.

“That’s Mrs. Hamilton Buxton.”

“Are you sure?” he cried.

“Why shouldn’t she be?”

“I thought Mrs. Hamilton Buxton was a trifle—well, notorious.”

“Just a trifle,” Effie returned maliciously. “I interviewed her once and I'm not likely to be wrong. Doesn’t she make up well?”

He looked at her indignantly.

“She’s no older than you.”

Effie was paler than usual. She took out a neat little pad and produced a pencil.

“This is the first opportunity I've ever had,” she said, “to interview a man who’s suddenly fallen in love for the first time. 1 shall call it ‘The Soul’s Awakening.’”

He looked at her angrily. She had never seen him show such sudden passion.

“I hate red-headed women,” he snapped, and turned on his heel, and