Madcap. George Gibbs

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ no joke," said Archie Westcott, who was watching the game.

       "Some tennis, that. They're one set all and Hermia just broke through

       Reggie's service. That makes it five four."

      Markham, teacup in hand, followed the Countess to the balustrade and watched. One would never have supposed from the way she played that this girl had been up since dawn and suffered an accident which had temporarily incapacitated her. Youth was triumphant. Vigor, suppleness and grace marked every movement, the smashing overhand service, the cat-like spring to the net, the quick recovery, the long free swing of the volley from the back-court, all of which showed form of a high order. It was a man's tennis that the girl was playing and Reggie Armistead needed all his cleverness to hold her at even terms. It was an ancient grudge, Markham learned, and an even thing in the betting, but Armistead pulled through by good passing and made the sets deuce.

      "Gad! It makes me hot to look at 'em!" said Crosby Downs, fingering at his collar band, his face brick-color from the day in the open. "Make 'em stop, somebody."

      He dropped into a wicker chair and fanned vigorously with his hat.

      "Lord! Golf is bad enough. Oh, what's the use," he sighed heavily.

      "Been golfing, Crosby?" smiled the Countess.

      "Oh, call it that if you like," he growled. "Rotten game, that. Doctor's orders. A hundred and ten to-day. Couldn't hit the earth even and there were acres of it."

      "Living up to your reputation, Crosby," sneered Carol Gouverneur. "Sans putt et sans approach?"

      "You've struck it, young man. Sans anything, but that Weary Willie feelin' and a devourin' thirst. But I lost four pounds," he added more cheerfully—his fingers demonstrating in his waistband. "Oh, I'll put it on again to-night at dinner. Silly ass business—this runnin' around in the sun."

      "Quite so," Olga agreed, "but everything we do is silly and asinine."

      There was an outburst of applause form the others at a particularly brilliant shot below.

      "By George!" cried Westcott, "she's got him. It's Hermia's vantage and forty-love. O Reggie! A love game, by Jiminy! Hermia, you've won me a cool hundred."

      The game was over and the players shook hands before the net, Hermia laughing gaily, Armistead's eyes full of honest adoration. They were handsome children, those two.

      Hermia climbed the steps slowly amid the congratulations of the guests and smiled as Markham came forward to meet her. She was rosy as a cherub, her bright hair tumbled beneath her crimson hair-band.

      "Very good of you to come, Mr. Markham," she said breathlessly. "I had my eye in, and couldn't stop. I simply had to beat Reggie, you know," And then as her responsibilities recurred to her, "you've met everybody? Mrs. Renshaw, Miss Coddington—Mr. Markham—the Hermit of Thimble Island."

      With a laugh she led him away from the others and threw herself in a lounge chair and motioned him to a seat nearby.

      "You see," she said gaily, "her I am—quite safe—and ready to mock at all seriousness-the grasshopper entertaining the ant. Do you think you can stand so much gayety, Mr. Markham?"

      "Even an ant must have its moments of frivolity."

      "You frivolous!" she smiled.

      "I've always wanted to be. It's one of my secret longings. I was born old. Show me how to be young and I'll give you anything I possess."

      "That's tempting. I think I'll begin at once."

      He laughed. "At what?"

      She scrutinized him from top to toe.

      "Oh, at your goggles."

      He fingered his glasses.

      "These?"

      She nodded.

      He took them off and looked at them amusedly.

      "That's the first step. You're ten years younger already," she said.

      "Oh, am I?"

      "Yes. I'm sure of it—when you don't frown."

      "And next?"

      "You must flirt, Mr. Markham—and make pretty speeches—"

      "Pretty speeches!"

      "Oh, yes—you must treat every woman as though you adored her secretly, and when ladies visit your studio you mustn't bang the door in their faces."

      "Did I do that?"

      "Er—figuratively, yes. You were very impolite." She lay back and laughed at him. "There—I feel better. Now we shall be good friends."

      He fingered his goggles a moment, and then his eyes met hers in frank agreement.

      "I'm glad of that," he said, with a slow smile. "I like you a great deal."

      She straightened, her eyes sparkling merrily.

      "You see? You're improving already. I have great hopes for you, Mr. Markham." She threw a glance at the others and rose. "Here endeth the first lesson. It is time to dress. We will resume after dinner. That is," she added, "if Olga will spare you for a few moments."

      "Olga—Madame Tcherny won't mind in the least," he laughed. "If you can make me anybody but myself, she will thank you from the bottom of her heart. Madame Tcherny is already at the point of giving me up as a hopeless case."

      "In what respect?"

      "Oh, in all respects. I'm a great disappointment to her—" He stopped suddenly. "I mean socially—professionally. You see I'm not the stuff that successful portrait painters are made of—"

      "Except perhaps that you really can paint?" she asked over her shoulder.

      He shrugged and followed.

      CHAPTER VIII

      OLGA TCHERNY

      As the guests gathered in the drawing-room and on the terrace before dinner it was apparent to Markham that, unless he obeyed the injunctions of his small preceptor, he would be quite forgotten amid this gay company. On Thimble Island, as in New York, he had not found them necessary to his own existence, and it was quite clear that her at "Wake-Robin" they returned his indifference. After the first nod and appraising glance in his direction, Crosby Downs and Carol Gouverneur had completely ignored him. Archie Westcott had unbent to the point of offering him a cigarette, and Trevvy Morehouse, who had joined them over the cocktails, and injected polite bromidics into the conversation which Reggie Armistead, who knew nothing of Markham's art and cared less, only saved by some wholesome enthusiasm, in which all joined, over the "sand" and all-around good fellowship of their hostess.

      But it required little assurance to make one's self at home here where informality seemed to be the rule, and before Hermia and the Countess came down Markham found СКАЧАТЬ