He understood the implied promise in this remark and gave the hand on his arm a quick pressure, before relinquishing her to the care of the pale-complexioned youth who by this time had returned to her side.
In another moment Paula came up on the arm of a black-whiskered gentleman all shirt front and eyeglasses. “O Cicely,” she cried, (she called Miss Stuyvesant, Cicely now) “is it not a delightful evening?”
“Are you enjoying yourself so much?” inquired that somewhat agitated little lady, with a glance at the countenance of her friend’s attendant.
“I fear it would scarcely seem consistent in me now to say no,” returned the radiant girl, with a laughing glance towards the same gentleman.
But when they were alone, the gentleman having departed on some of the innumerable errands with which ladies seem to delight in afflicting their attendant cavaliers at balls or receptions, she atoned for that glance by remarking,
“I do not find the average partner that falls to one’s lot in such receptions all that fancy paints.” And then finding she had repeated a phrase of Mr. Ensign’s, blushed, though no one stood near her but Cicely.
“Fancy’s brush would need to be dipped in but two colors to present to our eye the mass of them,” was Cicely’s laughing reply. “A streak of black for the coat, and a daub of white for the shirt front. Voila tout.”
“With perhaps a dash of red in some cases,” murmured a voice over their shoulders.
They turned with hurried blushes. “Ah, Mr. Ensign,” quoth Cicely in unabashed gaiety, “we reserve red for the exceptions. We did not intend to include our acknowledged friends in our somewhat sweeping assertion.”
“Ah, I see, the black streak and the white daub are a symbol of, ‘Er—Miss Stuyvesant—very warm this evening! Have an ice, do. I always have an ice after dancing; so refreshing, you know.’ ”
The manner in which he imitated the usual languid drawl of certain of the young scapegraces heretofore mentioned, was irresistible. Paula forgot her confusion in her mirth.
“You are blessed with a capacity for playing both roles, I perceive,” cried Cicely with unusual abandon. “Well, it is convenient, there is nothing like scope.”
“Unless it is hope,” whispered Mr. Ensign so low that only Paula could hear.
“But I warn you,” continued Cicely, with a sweet soft laugh that seemed to carry her heart far out into the passing throng, “that we have no fondness for the model beau of the period. A dish of milk makes a very good supper but it looks decidedly pale on the dinner table.”
“Yes,” said Paula, eying the various young men that filed up and down before them, some pale, some dark, some handsome, some plain, but all smiling and dapper, if not debonair, “some men could be endured if only they were not men.”
Mr. Ensign gave her a quick look, and while he laughed at the paradox, straightened himself like one who could be a man if the occasion called. She saw the action and blushed.
But their conversation was soon interrupted. Mr. Sylvester was seen returning from the supper-room, looking decidedly anxious, and while Paula was ignorant of what had transpired to annoy him, her ready spirit caught the alarm, and she was about to rush up to him and address him, when one of the waiters approached, and murmuring a few words she did not hear, handed him a card upon which she descried nothing but a simple circle. Instantly a change crossed his already agitated countenance, and advancing to the ladies with a word or two that while seemingly cheerful, struck Paula as somewhat forced, excused himself with the information that a business friend had been so inconsiderate as to importune him for an interview in the hall. And with just a nod towards Mr. Ensign, who had drawn back at his advance, left them and disappeared in the crowd about the door.
“I do not like these interruptions from business friends in a time of pleasure,” cried Paula, looking after him with anxious eyes. “Did you notice how agitated he seemed, Cicely? And half an hour ago he was the picture of calm enjoyment.”
“Business is beyond our comprehension, Paula,” returned her friend evasively. “It is something like a neuralgic twinge, it takes a man when he least expects it. Have you told Mr. Ensign of our adventure?”
“No, but I informed Mr. Sylvester, and he said such good, true words to me, Cicely. I can never forget them.”
“And I told papa; but he only frowned and made some observation about the degeneracy of the times, and the number of scamps thrown to the top by the modern methods of acquiring instantaneous fortunes.”
“Your papa is sometimes hard, is he not, Cicely?”
With a flush Miss Stuyvesant allowed her eye to rest for a moment on the crowd shifting before her. “He was dug from a quarry of granite, Paula. He is both hard and substantial; capable of being hewn but not of being moulded. Of such stuff are formed monuments of enduring beauty and solidity. You must do papa justice.”
“I do, but I sometimes have a feeling as if the granite column would fall and crush me, Cicely.”
“You, Paula?”
Before she could again reply, Mr. Sylvester returned. His face was still pale, but it had acquired an expression of rigidity even more alarming to Paula than its previous aspect of forced merriment. Lifting her by the hand, he drew her apart.
“I shall have to leave you somewhat abruptly,” said he. “An important matter demands my instant attention. Bertram is somewhere here, and will see that you and Ona arrive home in safety. You won’t allow your enjoyment to be clouded by my hasty departure, will you?”
“Not if it will make you anxious. But I would rather go home with you now. I am sure Cousin Ona would be willing.”
“But I am not going home at present,” said he; and she ventured upon no further remonstrance.
But her enjoyment was clouded; the sight of suffering or anxiety on that face was more
