let’s have dinner. Fu must have it ready.”
We ate in almost complete silence. I could see that my niece was more than ordinarily abstracted, so I did not try to make conversation, merely replying to such queries as she put to me from time to time.
“What kind of flower was it that the princess pinned on Owen?”
I did not know. I had been too far away to see what it was. And then, while I searched my store of subjective impressions, I remembered that I had seen in the limousine, in passing, a vase of full-blown yellow marigolds.
Portia appeared disturbed again, out of all proportion, when I told her my impression, remarking that I didn’t understand how an aristocratic woman like the princess could bear the acrid, pungent odor of those old-fashioned flowers, which are all very well for decorative purposes in flowerbeds. but hardly sweet-perfumed enough for a fastidious woman’s taste.
“I mustn’t lose my grip on myself. I mustn't. I mustn’t,” Portia repeated several times.
I thought she must be very tired indeed to let such a trivial incident trouble her so deeply, but laid it to her love for Owen and her fear of losing him.
PART 5
After dinner my niece told me she was going to put on outdoor clothes and I had better change into something darker than the light gray tailored suit I had worn with my fox-furs that afternoon. When she came into my room, she wore riding breeches under a three-quarters rough tweed overcoat. Boris and Andrei leapt repeatedly upon her, overjoyed with the prospect of an outside run, which they understood they were to have when they saw leashes and a short whip in their mistress’ leather-gauntleted hands.
“Will you take Boris, Aunt Sophie? Boris is easier to manage, I think. You’d best take the whip, too. I shan’t need it with Andrei. In fact, I shouldn’t need it at all, both dogs are so accustomed to immediate obedience to my voice. You may possibly be obliged to use it as a persuasive for Boris, who isn’t entirely used to you yet.”
She leashed the hounds and gave Boris over to me, and we went out into the quiet night. The plan was to walk up Gilman Street in the opposite direction from Queens Boulevard, and return past the old Burnham house.
Portia seemed worked up about something. I presumed she was still thinking about the Russian and the flower in Owen’s buttonhole, so I remained silent rather than to appear cognizant of her thoughts. Presently, however, as we turned to the left, I asked her if we had any special objective, apart from walking past the Burnham house. I could feel her eyes upon me in the soft darkness.
“We’re going to take a little walkabout the Burnham grounds, Aunt Sophie. I want to see—I want—oh, it’s very hard to explain! You may think it dreadful of me—but—Auntie, you’ve just got to trust me, that’s all. I’ve got to go into the princess’ grounds. I’ve got to look into her windows, if I get a chance. I can’t explain everything now, but my reason is very important, more than I can possibly tell you. Won't you trust me, please?”
Her voice was so entreating that I felt my heart pushing the words of assent to my tongue’s tip. After all, Portia was my niece. She cared for Owen Edwardes. I really could not believe that the Russian, so exotic and bizarre a creature, could have become in reality fascinated by a young man who was, after all, just a good-looking, healthy young American business man. If the princess did not care for him, then she only wanted to flirt, to
