"You flatter me," replied Norman, "I had aspired to no such position, but for your brother's sake, if not for your own, I wished to tell Eric that the Roman air at midnight was dangerous to your health. I saw you had your window open."

"Did you look through the ceiling, pray?" Mae retorted from the door-way. "Eric, ring if you want anything. Rosetta is close at hand."

"I have put my foot in it this time," said Eric, clumsily. "I am real sorry, Norman, old boy."

Norman did not feel like being pitied, and this remark of Eric's roused him. He fairly ground his teeth and clenched his hands, but his big brown moustache and the tablecloth hid these outer manifestations of anger. "Don't be a goose, Ric," he said. "What possible difference can all this make to me? Your sister is young and quick."

Now, it was Eric's turn to wince. Was he giving this fellow the impression that he thought his sister's opinions would affect him?

Horrible suspicion! Boys always fancy everybody in love with their sister. He must cure that at once. "Of course," he replied quickly, "I know you and Mae never agree, that you barely stand each other. But I didn't know but you would prefer to be on good terms with her, for all that."

"Miss Mae can choose the terms on which we meet. I shall be content whatever her decision. What are your plans for the day?"

Lounging Eric straightened himself at once. "I was a perfect fool last night," he confessed, "and I must rely on you, old fellow, to help me out. I made engagements for two weeks ahead with Miss Hopkins and Miss Rae. At any rate, I'm booked for the play to-night. Now, I can't take two girls very well. That is, I can, but I thought you might like a show. You may have your choice of the two. Miss Rae, by the way, says she's wild to know you; thought you were the most provoking man she ever saw; and that you were--nonsensical idea--engaged to Mae. All because you wouldn't look at her the other day when she pa.s.sed you two, But you can go with Miss Hopkins, if you prefer."

"Are they pretty?" asked Norman, apparently warming to the task, "and bright?"

"I should say they were. Miss Hopkins has gorgeous great eyes,--but Miss Rae is more your style. Still, you may have your choice."

"Silly boy; you're afraid to death that I shall choose Miss Hopkins.

Well, if they are not over stupid and flirtatious--"

"Stupid! Oh, no,"--Eric scouted that idea--"and flirtatious, perhaps.

Miss Hopkins rolls her eyes a good deal, but then she has a frankness, a winning way."

"Well," laughed Norman, "you're such a transparent, susceptible infant-in-arms that I'll go with you."

"As shepherd," suggested Eric, "as long as Mae won't have you. But come, we must go down and call on these people. It won't do at all for you to appear suddenly this evening, and say, 'I'll relieve my friend here of one of you.'"

"Oh, what a bore. Is that necessary? Won't a card or a box of Stillman's bon-bons do them? Well, if it must be, come along, then."

CHAPTER V.

It was evening, and the brilliantly lighted theatre was crowded to overflowing. Of course there were English who scowled at the Americans, and Americans who smiled on every one and ate candy while Oth.e.l.lo writhed in jealous rage, and a scattering of Germans with spectacles and a row of double-barrelled field gla.s.ses glued over them, and Frenchmen with impudent eyes and elegant gloves, and a general filling in of Italians, with the glitter here and there of n.o.bility, and still oftener of bright uniforms. Finally there was a modic.u.m of true gentry, and these not of any particular nation or cla.s.s. It is pleasant to name our party immediately after referring to these goodly folks. They had a fine box, and although their ranks were thinned by the loss of two cavaliers, n.o.body seemed to care. Albert and Edith were perfectly happy side by side, and Mrs. Jerrold was well contented to observe her daughter's smile as Albert spoke to her, and the look of manly protection in his eyes, as his gaze met Edith's.

As for Mae, she had that delicious feminine pride which is as good a stimulant as success to women--in emergencies. And to-night was an emergency to this small, excitable, young thing. Her eyes were very dark from the expansion of the pupil. They possessed a rare charm, caught from a trick the eyelids had of drooping slowly and then suddenly and unexpectedly lifting to reveal the wide, bright depths, that half-concealed, half-revealed power, which is so tantalizing. Mae was dressed in this same spirit to-night, and she was dimly conscious of it.

The ma.s.ses of tulle that floated from her opera hat to her chin and down on her shoulders, revealed only here and there a glimpse of rich brown hair, or of white throat. Her cheeks were scarlet, her lips a-quiver with excitement and pleasure. She formed a pretty contrast to Edith, who sat by her side. Miss Jerrold leaned back in her chair quietly, composedly. She fanned herself in long sweeps, looked pleased, contented, but in no wise displaced or surprised--thoroughly well-bred and at home. She might have had a private rehearsal of Oth.e.l.lo in her own dramatic hall the evening before, from her air and mien. Mae, on the contrary, was alert, on the qui vive, as interested as a child in each newcomer, and, after the curtain rose, in every tableau.

Such a woman can not fail to attract attention, as long as she is herself unconscious. The world grows blase so speedily that it enjoys all the more thoroughly the sight of freshness, verve, life,--that is, the male portion of the world. Women's great desire, as a rule, is to appear entirely at ease, city-bred, high-bred, used to all things, surprised by none.

So there were a great many gla.s.ses turned toward Mae that evening.

Very probably the young women in the next box accepted a share of these glances as their own, and, in a crowd where the French and Italian elements predominate, or largely enter, they could not have been far wrong. Every girl or woman who pretends to any possible charm is quite sure of her share of admiration from these susceptible beings. The young ladies of the next box had that indescribable New York air, which extends from the carefully brushed eyebrows quite to the curves of the wrist and hand. Praise Parisian modes all you will, but for genuine style, a New York girl, softened a trifle by commonsense or good taste, leads the world--certainly if she is abroad. For there she soon finds it impossible to go to the extremes that American air seems to rush her into. Three months, or perhaps, if she is observant, three days in Paris, teach her that the very biggest b.u.t.tons, or the very largest paniers, or the very flaringest hats are not for her, or any lady, and by stepping back to size number two, she does not detract from her style, while she does add to her lady-likeness.

These two girls, it may be surmised, were no other than Miss Hopkins and Miss Rae, whom chance or fate or bungling Eric Madden, who bought the tickets, had seated side by side with the Maddens and Jerrolds. It was bothersome, when Norman and Eric had played truant at any rate, but there was no help for it; so after a little Eric introduced them all round, and the two parties apparently merged into one, or broke up into four, for tete-a-tetes soon began. It was a little hard that three girls should have each a devoted servant, and that only one, and that one, Mae, should be obliged to receive her care from the chaperon; but so it was.

Nevertheless, Mae bore herself proudly. She was seated next Miss Rae, separated only by the nominal barrier of a little railing, while just beyond sat Norman, his chair turned toward the two girls. The stranger insisted on drawing Mae into the conversation, partly for curiosity's sake, to watch her odd face and manners, partly from that genuine generosity that comes to the most selfish of women, when she is satisfied with her position. It is pleasant to pity, to be generous; and Miss Rae, having the man, could afford to share him now and then, when it pleased her, with the lonely girl by her side. But Miss Rae's tactics did not work. Mae replied pleasantly when addressed, but returned speedily and eagerly to Mrs. Jerrold or a survey of the house, with the frank happiness of a child. She was all the more fascinating to the admiring eyes that watched her, because she sat alone, electrified by the inspiration and magnetism from within, and did not need the stimulus of another voice close by her side, breathing compliments and flattery, to brighten her eyes and call the blushes to her cheeks. Norman Mann saw the eyes fixed on her, and they vexed him. At the same time, he liked her the better on that very account.

And at last the curtain rose.

It was just as Desdemona a.s.sures her father of her love for Oth.e.l.lo, that Mae became conscious of a riveted gaze--of a presence. Lifting her eyes, and widening them, she looked over to the opposite side of the house, and there, of course, was the Piedmontese officer again, handsomer, more brilliant than ever, with a grateful, soft look of recognition in his eyes.

Mae was out of harmony with all her friends. She was proud and lonely.

The man's pleased, softened look touched her heart strangely. There was almost a choke in her throat, there were almost tears in her eyes, and there was a free, glad, welcoming smile on her lips.

Norman Mann saw it and followed it, and caught the officer receiving it, and thought "She's a wild coquette."

And Mae knew what he saw and what he thought.

Then a strange spirit entered the girl. Here was a man who vexed her, who piqued her, and who was rude, for Mae secretly thought it was rude to neglect Mrs. Jerrold, as the boys did that evening, and yet who was vexed and piqued in his turn, if she did what he didn't like and looked at another man.

And then here was the other man. Mae looked down at him.

Bless us! who is to blame a young woman for forgetting everything but the "other man" when he is a G.o.dlike Piedmontese officer, with strong soft cheek and throat, and Italian eyes, and yellow moustaches, and spurs and b.u.t.tons that click and shine in a maddening sort of way?

Of course, in reality, everybody is to blame her, we among the very virtuous first. In this particular case, however, we have facts, not morals, to deal with. Mae did see Norman Mann talking delightedly to a pretty girl, and she did see the officer gazing at her rapturously, and she quite forgot Oth.e.l.lo, and gave back look for look, only more shy and less intense perhaps, and knew that Norman Mann was very angry and she and the officer very happy. What matter though the one should hate her, and the other love her, and she--

But, bother all things but the delirious present moment. Never fear consequences. There were bright lights, and brilliant people, the hum of many voices, the flash of many eyes, and a half secret between her, this little creature up in the box, and the very handsomest man of them all.

So while Oth.e.l.lo fell about the stage, and ground out tremendous curses, Mae half shivered and glanced tremblingly toward Bero, and Bero gazed back protectingly and grandly. Once, when Desdemona cried out thrillingly, "Oth.e.l.lo, il mio marito," Mae looked at Norman involuntarily and caught a half flash of his eye, but he turned back quickly to his companion and Mae's glance wandered on to Bero and rested there as the wild voice cried out again, "il mio marito, il mio marito."

So the evening slid on. Mae smiled and smiled and opened and half closed her eyes, and Norman invited Miss Rae to go to church with him, and to drive with him, and to walk with him, and to go to the galleries with him, "until, Susie Hopkins, if you will believe it, I fairly thought he would drop on his knees and ask me to go through life with him, right then and there." So Miss Rae confided to Susie Hopkins after the victorious night, in the silence of a fourth-story Costanzi bedroom.

Susie Hopkins was putting her hair up on crimping-pins, but she paused long enough to say: "Well, Jack Durkee had better hurry himself and his ring along, then."

"O, he's coming as quickly as ever he can," laughed Miss Rae, whereat she proceeded to place a large letter and a picture under the left-hand pillow, crimped her hair, cold-creamed her lips, and laid her down to pleasant dreams of--Jack.

CHAPTER VI.

Mae was very much ashamed of herself the next morning. She had been restored in a measure to popular favor, through Eric, the day before.

Edith and Albert were home from Frascati, when Eric made his raid bravely on their forces combined with those of Mrs. Jerrold. He advanced boldly. "It's all nonsense, child, as she is," he said. "It was natural enough, to talk with the man," for Mae had made a clean breast of her misdoings to him, to the extent of saying that they had chatted after the beggar left. "Do forgive her, poor little proud tot, away across the sea from her mother. Albert, you're as hard as a rock, and that Edith has no spirit in her," he added, under his breath. This remark made Albert white with rage. Nevertheless, he put in a plea for his wayward, reckless little sister, with effect. After a few more remarks from Mrs.

Jerrold, Mae came out of the ordeal; was treated naturally, and, as we have seen, accompanied Mrs. Jerrold to the play the night before.

Now, it was the next day. Mrs. Jerrold breakfasted in her own room again, and spent the hours in writing home letters full of the Peter and Paul reminiscences and quotations. Norman and Eric left for the Costanzi, and Albert and Edith, armed with books, and note-books, and the small camp-stools, again started away together. This last 'again'

was getting to be accepted quite as a matter of course. Everybody knew what it meant. They always invited the rest of the company to go with them, and were especially urgent, this morning, that Mae should accompany them.

"Why, with mamma in her room you will be lonely," suggested Edith, "and you can't go out by yourself."

Mae winced inwardly at this, but replied pleasantly: "I have letters to write also, and I'm not in the mood to-day for pictures, and the cold, chilling galleries filled with the damp breath of the ages."

So Edith and Albert, nothing loth, having discharged their duty, started off. These two have as yet appeared only in the background, and may have a.s.sumed a half-priggish air in opposition and contrast to Mae.

They really, however, were very interesting young people. Albert with a strong desire in his heart--or was it in his head?--to aid the world, and Edith with a clear self-possession and New England shrewdness that helped and pleased him. Their travels were enriching them both. Edith was trying to draw the soul from all the great pictures and some of the lesser ones, and Albert was waking, through her influence, to the world of art. This morning they were on their way to the Transfiguration to study the scornful sister. They were taking the picture bit by bit, color by color, face by face. There are advantages in this a.n.a.lytical study, yet there is a chance of losing the spirit of the whole. So Mae thought and said: "I know that sister now, Edith, better than you ever will." This was while she was looping up her friend's dress here, and pulling out a fold there, in that destructive way girls have of beautifying each other. "See here!"