“Well,” Miss Fairfax rejoined drily, “I would scold you, general, for those lyrical effusions if they were intended for anybody else. Pretty women are usually silly, because from childhood upwards they have been taught to use their intellect solely for purposes of self-contemplation and self-admiration. But Rosemary Fowkes is an exception. She is not only beautiful, but brilliantly clever. Surely you remember those articles in the International Review on the subject of ‘The Evils of Bureaucracy in the Near East’? They were signed ‘Uno,’ and many doubted at the time that the writer was a woman, and a young one at that.”
“Uno?” General Naniescu exclaimed, and threw a significant glance at M. de Kervoisin, who in his turn uttered an astonished “Ah!” and leaned over the edge of the box in order to take a closer view of the lady under discussion.
III
Indeed no lyrical effusion would seem exaggerated if dedicated to Rosemary Fowkes. She was one of those women on whom Nature seemed to have showered every one of her most precious gifts. There are few words that could adequately express the peculiar character of her beauty. She was tall, and her figure was superb; but there are many tall, beautifully built women. She had hair the colour of horse-chestnuts when first they fall out of their prickly green cases, and her skin was as delicately transparent as eggshell china; but Rosemary’s charm did not lie in the colour of her hair or the quality of her skin. It lay in something more undefinable. Perhaps it was in her eyes. Surely, surely it was in her eyes. People were wont to say they were “haunting,” like the eyes of a pixie or of a fairy. They were not blue, nor were they green or grey, but they were all three at times, according as Rosemary was pleased or amused or thoughtful; and when she was pleased or amused she would screw up those pixie eyes of hers, and three adorable little lines that were not wrinkles would form on each side of her nose, like those on the nose of a lion cub.
Her chestnut-coloured hair lay in luscious waves over her forehead and round her perfectly shaped little head, and when she smiled her small white teeth would gleam through her full, parted lips.
Eschewing the fantastic pierrot costumes of the hour, Rosemary Fowkes was dressed in a magnificent Venetian gown of the fifteenth century, the rich crimson folds of which set off her stately figure as well as the radiant colouring of her skin and hair. She wore a peculiarly shaped velvet cap, the wings of which fastened under her chin, thus accentuating the perfect oval of the face and the exquisite contour of forehead and cheeks.
“A woman so beautiful has no right to be clever,” General Naniescu remarked with an affected sigh. “It is not fair to the rest of her sex.”
“Miss Fowkes is certainly very gifted,” Lady Orange remarked drily, her enthusiasm apparently being less keen on the subject of Rosemary than that of Miss Fairfax.
“And who is the happy man,” M. de Kervoisin put in in his dry, ironic tone, “with whom the enchantress is dancing?”
“Peter Blakeney,” Miss Fairfax replied curtly.
“Qui ça, Peter Blakeney?”
“Peter Blakeney, Peter Blakeney! He does not know who is Peter Blakeney!” Lady Orange exclaimed, and for this supreme moment she departed from her habitual vagueness of attitude, whilst her glance became more markedly astonished than before.
Two or three young people who sat at the back of the box tittered audibly, and gazed at the foreigner as if he were indeed an extraordinary specimen lately presented to the Zoo.
“Remember, dear lady,” General Naniescu put in, wholly unperturbed by the sensation which his friend’s query had provoked, “that M. de Kervoisin and I are but strangers in your wonderful country, and that no doubt it is our want of knowledge of your language that causes us to seem ignorant of some of your greatest names in literature or the Arts.”
“It is not a case of literature or the Arts, mon cher général,” Lady Orange condescended to explain. “Peter Blakeney is the finest cover-point England ever had.”
“Ah! political sociology?” M. de Kervoisin queried blandly.
“Political what?”
“The Secret Points, no doubt you mean, dear lady?” the general went on, politely puzzled. “Advanced Communism, what? M. Blakeney is then a disciple of Lenin?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Lady Orange sighed. “Peter Blakeney is the finest cricketer Eton and Oxford have ever produced.”
“Cricket!” exclaimed the general, while M. de Kervoisin uttered a significant “Ah!”
There was a moment of quite uncomfortable silence. Naniescu was thoughtfully stroking his luxurious moustache, and a gentle, indulgent smile hovered round the thin lips of M. de Kervoisin.
“It is interesting,” Naniescu said suavely after a moment or two, “to see two such world-famous people given over to the pleasure of the dance.”
“They are excellent dancers, both of them,” Lady Orange assented placidly, even though she had a vague sense of uneasiness that the two foreigners were laughing surreptitiously at something or at her.
“And we may suppose,” the general continued, “that a fine young man like Mr. Blakeney has some other mission in life than the playing of cricket.”
“He hasn’t time for anything else,” came in indignant protest from a young lady with shingled hair. “He plays for England, in Australia, South Africa, all over the world. Isn’t that good enough?”
“More that enough, dear lady,” assented Naniescu with a bland smile. “Indeed, it were foolish to expect the greatest—what did you call him?—secret point to waste his time on other trifling matters.” “Cover-point, mon général,” Lady Orange suggested indulgently, whilst the young people at the back broke into uproarious mirth.
