"Young eyes In swift surprise, What terror veils you?

Clear eyes, Who gallops here?

What wolf a.s.sails you?

What horseman hails you, _Lada!_ What pleasure pales you?

_Lada oy Lada!_

"Knight who rides boldly, May Erlik impale you,-- Your mother bewail you, If you use her coldly!

Health to the wedding!

Joy to the bedding!

Set all the Christian bells Swinging and ringing-- Monks in their stony cells Chanting and singing (_Lada oy Lada!_) Bud of the rose, Gently unclose!"

Marya, her gemmed fingers bracketed on her hips, the last sensuous note still afloat on her lips, turned her head so that her rounded chin rested on her bare shoulder; and looked at Shotwell. He rose, applauding with the others, and found a chair for her.

But when she seated herself, she addressed Ilse on the other side of him, leaning so near that he felt the warmth of her hair.

"Who was it wrestled with Loki? Was it Hel, G.o.ddess of death? Or was it Thor who wrestled with that toothless hag, Thokk?"

Ilse explained.

The conversation became general, vaguely accompanied by Vanya's drifting improvisations, where he still sat at the piano, his lost gaze on Marya.

Bits of the chatter around him came vaguely to Shotwell--the birth-control lady's placid inclination toward obstetrics; Wardner on concentration, with Palla listening, bending forward, brown eyes wide and curious and snowy hands framing her face; Ilse partly turned where she was seated, alert, flushed, half smiling at what John Estridge, behind her shoulder, was saying to her,--some improvised nonsense, of which Jim caught a fragment:

"If he who dwells in Midgard With cunning can not floor her, What hope that Mistress Westgard Will melt if I implore her?

"And yet I've come to Asgard, And hope I shall not bore her If I tell Mistress Westgard How deeply I adore her----"

Through the hum of conversation and capricious laughter, Vanya's vague music drifted like wind-blown thistle-down, and his absent regard never left Marya, where she rested among the cushions in low-voiced dialogue with Jim.

"I had hoped," she smiled, "that you had perhaps remembered me--enough to stop for a word or two some day at tea-time."

He had had no intention of going; but he said that he had meant to and would surely do so,--the while she was leisurely recognising the lie as it politely uncoiled.

"Why won't you come?" she asked under her breath.

"I shall certainly----"

"No; you won't come." She seemed amused: "Tell me, are you too a concentrationist?" And her beryl-green eyes barely flickered toward Palla. Then she smiled and laid her hand lightly on her breast: "I, on the contrary, am a Diffusionist. It's merely a matter of how G.o.d grinds the lens. But prisms colour one's dull white life so gaily!"

"And split it up," he said, smiling.

"And disintegrate it," she nodded, "--so exquisitely."

"Into rainbows."

"You do not believe that there is hidden gold there?" And, looking at him, she let one hand rest lightly against her hair.

"Yes. I believe it," he said, laughing at her enchanting effrontery.

"But, Marya, when the rainbow goes a-glimmering, the same old grey world is there again. It's always there----"

"Awaiting another rainbow!"

"But storms come first."

"Is another rainbow not worth the storm?"

"Is it?" he demanded.

"Shall we try?" she asked carelessly.

He did not answer. But presently he looked across at Vanya.

"Who is there who would not love him?" said Marya serenely.

"I was wondering."

"No need. All love Vanya. I, also."

"I thought so."

"Think so. For it is quite true.... Will you come to tea alone with me some afternoon?"

He looked at her; reddened. Marya turned her head leisurely, to hear what Palla was saying to her. At the sound of her voice, Jim turned also, and saw Palla bending near his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she was saying to Marya, "but Questa Terrett desires to know Jim----"

"Is it any wonder," said Marya, "that women should desire to know him? Alas!--" She laughed and turned to Ilse, who seated herself as Jim stood up.

Palla, her finger-tips resting lightly on his arm, said laughingly: "Our youthful and tawny enchantress seemed unusually busy with you this evening. Has she turned you into anything very disturbing?"

"Would you care?"

"Of course."

"Enough to come to earth and interfere?"

"Good heavens, has it gone as far as that!" she whispered in gay consternation. "And could I really arrive in time, though breathless?"

He laughed: "You don't need to stir from your niche, sweetness. I swept your altar once. I'll keep the fire clean."

"You adorable thing--" He felt the faintest pressure of her fingers; then he heard himself being presented to Questa Terrett.

The frail and somewhat mortuary beauty of this slim poetess, with her full-lipped profile of an Egyptian temple-girl and her pale, still eyes, left him guessing--rather guiltily--recollecting his recent but meaningless disrespect.

"I don't know," she said, "just why you are here. Soldiers are no novelty. Is somebody in love with you?"

It was a toss-up whether he'd wither or laugh, but the demon of gaiety won out.

She also smiled.