Ainslee's Magazine, February 1913 — page 15: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE POINT OF VIEW 5 Her pretty color became the hue of a bright-pink rose. “Mademoiselle,” a very deep voice said, in English, “is not this a world full of bores and tiresome duties? Have you the courage to defy them all for a few minutes—and talk to me in- stead ?” “Monsieur !”’ Miss Rawson burst out, and half rose from her seat. Then she sat down again; the unknown had not stirred a muscle. “Good!” he murmured. “One has to be courageous to do what is unconven- tional even if it is not wrong. J am not desirous of hurting or insulting you; I felt we might have something to say to one another. Is it so—tell me, am I right ?” “I do not know,” whispered Stella lamely. She was so taken aback at the preposterous fact that a stranger should have addressed her at all, even in a manner of indifference and respect, that . she knew not what to do. “T observed you last night,” he went on. “I am accustomed to judge of character rapidly; it is a habit I have acquired during my travels in foreign lands, when I cannot use the standard of my own. You are weary of a num- ber of things, and you do not know anything at all about life, and you are hedged round with those who will see that you never learn its meaning. Tell me—what do you think of Rome? It contains things and aspects which af- ford food for reflection—is it not so?” “We have only been to the Vatican as yet,” Stella answered timidly. She was still much perturbed at the whole inci- dent, but now that she had begun she determined she might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, and she was conscious that there was a strong at- traction in the mild blue eyes of the stranger. His manner had a complete repose and absence of self-conscious- ness which usually is only to be found in the people of race—in any nation. “You were taken to the Sistine Chapel, of course,” he went on, “and to the loggia and Bramante’s staircase, You saw some statues, too, perhaps ?” “My uncle and aunt do not care ‘armed any resentment. much for sculpture,’ Miss Rawson said, now regaining her composure, “but I like it—even better than _pic- tures.” 5; The stranger kept his steady eyes fixed upon her face all the time. “I have a nymph in my house at home,” he returned. “She came orig- inally from Rome; she is not Greek, and she is very like you—the same droop of head; I remarked it imme- diately. JI am superstitious—I suppose you would call what I mean by that word—and I knew directly that some day you, too, would mean things for me. That is why I spoke. Do you feel it, too?” Stella Rawson quivered. The in- credible situation suddenly paralyzed her. She—the Aunt Caroline’s niece— and engaged to Eustace Medlicott, the bishop’s junior chaplain—to be listen- ing to a grotesque-looking foreigner making subtle speeches of an insinuat- ing character, and, far from feeling scandalized and repulsed, to be con- scious that she was thrilled and inter- ested—it was hardly to be believed! “Will you tell me from where you come?” she asked, with sweet bashful- ness, raising two eyes as soft as brown velvet. ‘You speak English so very well—one cannot guess.” “Tama Russian,” he said simply. “I come from near Moscow, and my name is Sasha Roumovski—Count Roumoy- ski. Yours, I am aware, is Rawson, but I would like to know how you are called—Mary, perhaps? That is Eng- lish.” “No, my name is not Mary,” she an- swered, and froze a little; but the Rus- sian’s eyes continued to gaze at her with the same mild frankness, which dis- She felt they were as calm as deep pools of blue water; they filled her with a sense of © confidence and security which she could not account for in any way. Her color deepened; something in his peaceful expectancy seemed to com- pel her to answer his late question. “My Christian name is Stella,” she returned rather quickly; then added nervously: “I am engaged to Mr. Eus- COMMUC HOOK (C@)