tranquil, melancholy, working up a strident climax, and falling away again, whimpering, sighing. It was as though some gorgeous pageant had passed beyond the garden walls, with a din of barbaric trappings. There was in it the sound of high-pitched, exotic flutes, and the monotonous thud of camels' hoofs.
"You're a funny old dear," Gritty acknowledged, by way of thanking him.
Paul went on playing. The music attracted members of a bridge party who were dispersing for the evening. A tall, grey-haired woman in black velvet looked into the room, recognized Paul, and advanced slowly with a faint smile on her drooping lips.
Without interrupting his performance, Paul bowed, and the intruder came trailing across the room. Then she caught sight of Gritty curled up like a kitten, one hand hanging limp over the arm of the chair, a filament of smoke rising from her cigarette. Paul watched from the tail of his eye. After a graceful, elaborate feint, the intruder turned to address a waiter who was bringing the laden tray.
"Oh, waiter—I was just looking for my book. Have you seen it? It's a green book."
The waiter searched in vain, and the lady slowly retreated, saying that she might have left it upstairs after all. Paul went on playing.
Cora, he reflected, had never "just been" in her life. She was doomed to go through life trying to be. And she was putting up such a good bluff, as Pat would say, that she could afford to contemn anomalies like Gritty.
When Lady Henry was out of earshot Gritty sent him a muted, tomboyish whistle between her teeth, and he turned to see her jerk a thumb toward the departing figure.
"Who's she?"
"Why?"
