It
was always an occasion of mingled conversations, bursts of popular song
at the piano, and impromptu dancing through the length of the lower
floor. The benches at either side of the fire-place were invariably
crowded; and, from her place on the over-mantel, Cytherea's gaze rested
on the vivacious or subdued current of life. Lee Randon often gazed up
at her, and tonight, sunk in a corner with scarcely room to move the
hand which held a cigarette, this lifted interrogation was prolonged.
Mrs. Craddock, whom he had not seen since the dinner-dance at the club,
sat beside him in a vivid green dress with large black beads strung
from her left shoulder. She looked very well, he reflected; that was a
becoming dimple in her cheek. He had had the beginning of an interest
in her--new to Eastlake, and her husband dead, she had taken a house
there for the winter--but that had vanished now. He was deep in thought
when she said:
"Didn't I hear that you were infatuated with that doll?"
Who, he demanded, had told her such a strange story? "But she does
attract me," he admitted; "or, rather, she raises a great many
questions, natural in a person named Cytherea. The pair of castanets on
a nail--Claire used them in an Andalusian dance--might almost be an
offering, like the crutches of Lourdes, left before her by a grateful
child of the ballet."
"I can't see what you do, of course; but she reminds me of quantities
of women--fascinating on the outside and nothing within.
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