The Girl Philippa. Chambers Robert William

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СКАЧАТЬ turned to look at her again:

      "It's interesting, isn't it? She seems to be another breed."

      "Yes. Now, what do you make of her?"

      Warner hesitated, then looked up with a laugh.

      "Halkett," he said, "I'm going over to ask her to dance."

      "All right; I'll hold the table," said the Englishman, amused. And Warner rose, skirted the dancers, and walked around to the cashier's desk, aware all the while that the girl's indifferent grey eyes were following his movements.

      CHAPTER III

      Warner tucked his walking stick and straw hat under one arm and, sauntering over to the cashier's desk, made a very nice and thoroughly Continental bow to the girl behind it.

      Her impartial and uninterested gaze rested on him; after a moment she inclined her head, leisurely and in silence.

      He said in French:

      "Would Mademoiselle do me the honor of dancing this dance with me?"

      She replied in a sweet but indifferent voice:

      "Monsieur is too amiable. But he sees that I am caissière of the establishment."

      "Yet even the fixed stars of heaven dance sometimes to the music of the spheres."

      She smiled slightly:

      "When one is merely a fixture de cabaret, one dances only to the music of the Sbires! You must ask Monsieur Wildresse if I may dance with you."

      "He suggested that I ask you."

      "Very well, if it's a matter of business – "

      Warner laughed.

      "Don't you ever dance for pleasure?" he asked in English.

      She replied in English:

      "Is it your theory that it would give me pleasure to dance with you?"

      "It is," he said, still laughing. "But by demonstration alone are theories proven."

      The girl hesitated, her grey eyes resting on him. Then she turned her head, drew a pencil from her chestnut hair, rapped with it on the counter. A head waiter came speeding to her.

      "Aristide, I'm going to dance," she said in the same sweetly indifferent voice. "Have the goodness to sit in my chair until I return or Mélanie arrives."

      She slid to the floor from her high seat, came out, through the wire gate, and began to unpin her cambric apron.

      The closer view revealed to him her thinness in her black gown. She was not so tall as he had thought her, and she was younger; but he had been right about her cheeks and lips. Both were outrageously painted.

      She handed her daintily embroidered apron to the waiter, laid one hand lightly on Warner's arm; he led her to the edge of the dancing floor, clasped her waist and swung her with him out into the noisy whirl beyond.

      Thin, almost immature in her angular slenderness, the girl in motion became enchantingly graceful. Supple as a sapling in the summer wind, her hand rested feather-light in his; her long, narrow feet seemed like shadows close above the floor, never touching it.

      The orchestra ceased playing after a few minutes, but old man Wildresse, who had been watching them, growled, "Go on!" and the music recommenced amid plaudits and shouts of general approval.

      Once, as they passed the students' table, Warner heard the voice of old Wildresse in menacing dispute with the student who had first shouted out an invitation to Philippa.

      "She dances with whom she chooses!" roared Wildresse. "Do you understand, Monsieur? By God, if the Grand Turk himself asked her she should not dance with him unless she wished to!"

      Warner said to her jestingly:

      "Did the Grand Turk ever ask you, Philippa?"

      The girl did not smile.

      "Perhaps I am dancing with him now. One never knows – in a cabaret."

      When the music ceased she was breathing only a trifle faster, and her cheeks under the paint glowed softly pink.

      "Could you join us?" he asked. "Is it permitted?"

      "I'd like to… Yes."

      So he took her back to the table, where Halkett rose and paid his respects gracefully; and they seated themselves and ordered a grenadine for her.

      Old Wildresse, sidling by, paused with a non-committal grunt:

      "Eh bien? On s'amuse? Dis, petit galopin!"

      "I'm thirsty," said the girl Philippa.

      "And your caisse?"

      "Tell them to find Mélanie," she retorted indifferently.

      "Bon! A jour de fête, too! How long are you going to be?" But as she glanced up he winked at her.

      She shrugged her shoulders, leaned forward, chose a straw, and plunged it into the crimson depths of her iced grenadine.

      Old Wildresse looked at her a moment, then he also shrugged his shoulders and went shuffling away, always apparently distrustful of that invisible something just behind his back.

      Halkett said:

      "Mr. Warner and I have been discussing an imaginary portrait of you."

      "What?" The clear, grey eyes turned questioningly to him, to Warner.

      The latter nodded:

      "I happen to be a painter. Mr. Halkett and I have agreed that it would be an interesting experiment to paint your portrait —as you really are."

      The girl seemed slightly puzzled.

      "As I really am?" she repeated. "But, Messieurs, am I not what you see before you?"

      The music began again; the Louvain student, a little tipsy but very decorous, arose, bowed to the girl Philippa, bowed to Halkett and to Warner, and asked for the honor of a dance with her.

      "Merci, Monsieur – another time, perhaps," she replied indifferently.

      The boy seemed disposed to linger, but he was not quarrelsome, and finally Halkett got up and led him away.

      From moment to moment Warner, glancing across during his tête-à-tête with the girl Philippa, could see the Louvain student continually shaking hands with Halkett who seemed horribly bored.

      A little later still the entire Louvain delegation insisted on entertaining Halkett with beer and song; and the resigned but polite Englishman, now seated at their table, was being taught to sing "La Brabançonne," between draughts of Belgian beer.

      The girl Philippa played with the stem of her glass and stirred the ice in it with her broken wheat straw. The healthy color in her face had now faded to an indoor pallor again under the rouge.

      "So you are a painter," she СКАЧАТЬ