The Business of Life. Chambers Robert William
except for the rounded oval of her face under a loose crown of yellow hair, from which a stray lock sagged untidily, curling across her cheek.
He thought: "A blue-stocking prodigy of learning, with her hair in a mess, and painted at that." But he said politely, yet with that hint of idle amusement in his voice which often sounded through his speech with women:
"Are you the Miss Nevers who has taken over this antique business, and who writes monographs on Hurtado de Mendoza?"
"Yes."
"You appear to be very young to succeed such a distinguished authority as your father, Miss Nevers."
His observation did not seem to disturb her, nor did the faintest hint of mockery in his pleasant voice. She waited quietly for him to state his business.
He said: "I came here to ask somebody's advice about engaging an expert to appraise and catalogue my collection."
And even while he was speaking he was conscious that never before had he seen such a white skin and such red lips – if they were natural. And he began to think that they might be.
He said, noticing the bright lock astray on her cheek once more:
"I suppose that I may speak to you in confidence – just as I would have spoken to your father."
She was still looking at him with the charm of youthful inquiry in her eyes.
"Certainly," she said.
She glanced down at his card which still lay on her blotter, stood a moment with her hand resting on the desk, then indicated a chair at her elbow and seated herself.
He took the chair.
"I wrote you that I'd drop in sometime this week. The note was directed to your father. I did not know he was not living."
"You are the Mr. Desboro who owns the collection of armour?" she asked.
"I am that James Philip Desboro who lives at Silverwood," he said. "Evidently you have heard of the Desboro collection of arms and armour."
"Everybody has, I think."
He said, carelessly: "Museums, amateur collectors, and students know it, and I suppose most dealers in antiques have heard of it."
"Yes, all of them, I believe."
"My house," he went on, "Silverwood, is in darkest Westchester, and my recent grandfather, who made the collection, built a wing to contain it. It's there as he left it. My father made no additions to it. Nor," he added, "have I. Now I want to ask you whether a lot of those things have not increased in value since my grandfather's day?"
"No doubt."
"And the collection is valuable?"
"I think it must be – very."
"And to determine its value I ought to have an expert go there and catalogue it and appraise it?"
"Certainly."
"Who? That's what I've come here to find out."
"Perhaps you might wish us to do it."
"Is that still part of your business?"
"It is."
"Well," he said, after a moment's thought, "I am going to sell the Desboro collection."
"Oh, I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, under her breath; and looked up to find him surprised and beginning to be amused again.
"Your attitude is not very professional – for a dealer in antiques," he said quizzically.
"I am something else, too, Mr. Desboro." She had flushed a little, not responding to his lighter tone.
"I am very sure you are," he said. "Those who really know about and care for such collections must feel sorry to see them dispersed."
"I had hoped that the Museum might have the Desboro collection some day," she said, in a low voice.
He said: "I am sorry it is not to be so," and had the grace to redden a trifle.
She played with her pen, waiting for him to continue; and she was so young, and fresh, and pretty that he was in no hurry to finish. Besides, there was something about her face that had been interesting him – an expression which made him think sometimes that she was smiling, or on the verge of it. But the slightly upcurled corners of her mouth had been fashioned so by her Maker, or perhaps had become so from some inborn gaiety of heart, leaving a faint, sweet imprint on her lips.
To watch her was becoming a pleasure. He wondered what her smile might be like – all the while pretending an absent-minded air which cloaked his idle curiosity.
She waited, undisturbed, for him to come to some conclusion. And all the while he was thinking that her lips were perhaps just a trifle too full – that there was more of Aphrodite in her face than of any saint he remembered; but her figure was thin enough for any saint. Perhaps a course of banquets – perhaps a régime under a diet list warranted to improve —
"Did you ever see the Desboro collection, Miss Nevers?" he asked vaguely.
"No."
"What expert will you send to catalogue and appraise it?"
"I could go."
"You!" he said, surprised and smiling.
"That is my profession."
"I knew, of course, that it was your father's. But I never supposed that you – "
"Did you wish to have an appraisement made, Mr. Desboro?" she interrupted dryly.
"Why, yes, I suppose so. Otherwise, I wouldn't know what to ask for anything."
"Have you really decided to sell that superb collection?" she demanded.
"What else can I do?" he inquired gayly. "I suppose the Museum ought to have it, but I can't afford to give it away or to keep it. In other words – and brutal ones – I need money."
She said gravely: "I am sorry."
And he knew she didn't mean that she was sorry because he needed money, but because the Museum was not to have the arms, armour, jades, and ivories. Yet, somehow, her "I am sorry" sounded rather sweet to him.
For a while he sat silent, one knee crossed over the other, twisting the silver crook of his stick. From moment to moment she raised her eyes from the blotter to let them rest inquiringly on him, then went on tracing arabesques over her blotter with an inkless pen. One slender hand was bracketed on her hip, and he noticed the fingers, smooth and rounded as a child's. Nor could he keep his eyes from her profile, with its delicate, short nose, ever so slightly arched, and its lips, just a trifle too sensuous – and that soft lock astray again against her cheek. No, her hair was not dyed, either. And it was as though she divined his thought, for she looked up suddenly from her blotter and he instantly gazed elsewhere, feeling guilty and impertinent – sentiments not often experienced by that young man.
"I'll tell you what I'll do, Miss Nevers," he concluded, "I'll write you a letter to my housekeeper, Mrs. Quant. Shall I? And you'll go up and look over the collection and let me know what you think of it!"
"Do you not expect to be there?"
"Ought I to be?"
"I really can't answer you, but it seems to me rather important that the owner of a collection should be present when the appraiser begins work."
"The fact is," he said, "I'm booked for a silly shooting trip. I'm supposed to start to-morrow."
"Then perhaps you had better write the letter. My full name is Jacqueline Nevers – if you require it. You may use my desk."
She rose; he thanked her, seated himself, and began a letter to Mrs. Quant, charging her to admit, entertain, and otherwise particularly cherish one Miss Jacqueline Nevers, and give her the keys to the armoury.
While he was busy, Jacqueline Nevers paced the room backward and forward, her pretty head thoughtfully bent, hands clasped behind her, moving leisurely, absorbed in her cogitations.
Desboro ended his letter and sat for a moment watching her until, happening to glance at him, she discovered