The Argosy — page 206: what you’re looking at

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

Lady Valeria. 189g came in rather sheepishly, clarinet in hand, he remarked. ‘Then during the preliminary fluttering of music-sheets, screwing and twisting and tuning, and arrangement and disarrangment of lights, he found two ladies standing near him, chairless, and vacated his place. He sauntered away through the other drawing-room to the conservatory beyond, cool and dim, with a fountain dropping musi- cally on to broad water-lily leaves and a tall red bird holding a light aloft amongst fan-palms and orange trees. Just within the doorway a young girl rested on a long, low garden-chair. A slight, white figure, whose great starry eyes seemed to meet his with a look of expectation as he entered. She bowed hurriedly and awkwardly, looking away before he could return the recognition. He had seen her before, he knew, somewhere; but where? How pretty she was ; how wonderfully pretty, even to eyes filled with the splendour of Rose’s brilliant beauty. A shadowy, transparent, delicate prettiness, owing its charm to the subtle changes of light and shade that flitted across her sensitive face. How well the dead white of her gown suited her, with its quaint old-fashioned cut, and the crimson flower nestling amongst the folds of soft muslin and filmy lace. How distressed she had looked at his stupidity in not recognising her. Why wouldn’t she look again and give him the chance? Her shyness seemed to shroud her like a veil, he thought. Aunt Mamie was standing near her and bestowed a friendly nod and a gleaming grin upon him. As she did so, the scene at St. Fridolin’s flashed before him. ‘‘ Miss Paramount!” he said half to himself, and the delicate little face turned to his all alight with pleasure. He drew a seat near her in silence, for the music was beginning and they listened without speaking for a few moments. “That’s my brother Sampson!” she said, with shy pride; ‘‘ the one who played the clarinet solo—Mrs. Damien was kind enough to ask me here to hear him ”—then afraid she had been forward, Elsie shrank into herself in an agony of bashfulness. Edric made a civil remark about Sampson’s performance presently. She was touching the red flower lightly with her finger tips, and steal- ing a look at him at intervals, blushing as red as its petals. Her lips parted once as if to speak, and then closed again in a little nervous tremor. He began to be interested, and to wonder what she had to say to him. At last the music finally ceasing, he caught her eyes with a look of such open interrogation that it forced a response. “Mrs. Damien said I might ask you—” she faltered, and this pre- liminary was sufficient to command at once his prompt attention— ‘‘ how to go into the army.” “From Sandhurst do you mean, or through the Militia?” he queried, slightly puzzled. “Oh, no! Not as a gentleman like you would go in,” she hastened to explain, more fluttered than ever. ‘‘I mean people like us—to be common soldiers.” COMmMicoooks (©) im