The Danger Mark. Chambers Robert William
she couldn't remember, except that, when a small child, somebody had forbidden her to taste brandied peach syrup, which she adored; and the odour of cologne being similarly pleasant, she had tried it on her palate and found that it produced agreeable sensations.
It had become a habit. She was conscious of it, but remained indifferent because she didn't know anything about habits.
So all that sunny afternoon she lay in the chaise-longue, alternately reading and dreaming, her scented bonbons at her elbow. Later a maid brought tea; and a little later Duane Mallett was announced. He sauntered in, a loosely knit, graceful figure, still wearing his riding-clothes and dusty boots of the morning.
Geraldine Seagrave had had time enough to discover, during the past winter, that her old playfellow was not at all the kind of man he appeared to be. Women liked him too easily and he liked them without effort. There was always some girl in love with him until he was found kissing another. His tastes were amiably catholic; his caress instinctively casual. Beauty when responsive touched him. No girl he knew needed to remain unconsoled.
The majority of women liked him; so did Geraldine Seagrave. The majority instinctively watched him; so did she. In close acquaintance the man was a disappointment. It seemed as though there ought to be something deeper in him than the lightly humourous mockery with which he seemed to regard his very great talent—a flippancy that veiled always what he said and did and thought until nobody could clearly understand what he really thought about anything; and some people doubted that he thought at all—particularly the thoughtless whom he had carelessly consoled.
Women were never entirely indifferent concerning him; there remained always a certain amount of curiosity, whether they found him attractive or otherwise.
His humourous indifference to public opinions, bordering on effrontery, was not entirely unattractive to women, but it always, sooner or later, aroused their distrust.
The main trouble with Duane Mallett seemed to be his gaily cynical willingness to respond to any advance, however slight, that any pretty woman offered. This responsive partiality was disconcerting enough to make him dreaded by ambitious mothers, and an object of uneasy interest to their decorative offspring who were inclined to believe that a rescue party of one might bring this derelict into port and render him seaworthy for the voyage of life under their own particular command.
Besides, he was a painter. Women like them when they are carefully washed and clothed.
As Duane Mallett strolled into the living-room, Geraldine felt again, as she so often did, a slight sense of insecurity mingle with her liking for the man, or what might have been liking if she could ever feel absolute confidence in him. She had been, at times, very close to caring a great deal for him, when now and again it flashed over her that there must be in him something serious under his brilliant talent and the idle perversity which mocked at it.
But now she recognised in his smile and manner everything that kept her from ever caring to understand him—the old sense of insecurity in his ironical formality; and her outstretched hand fell away from his with indifference.
"I didn't have the happiness of riding with you, after all," he said, serenely seating himself and dropping one lank knee over the other. "Promises wouldn't be valuable unless somebody broke a lot now and then."
"You probably had the happiness of riding with some other woman."
He nodded.
"Who, this time?"
"Rosalie Dysart."
Rumour had been busy with their names recently. The girl's face became expressionless.
"Sorry you didn't come," he said, looking out of the window where the flapping shade revealed a lilac in bloom.
"How long did you wait for me?"
"About a minute. Then Rosalie passed–"
"Rosalies will always continue to pass through your career, my omnivorous friend.... Did it even occur to you to ride over here and find out why I missed our appointment?"
"No; why didn't you come?"
"Bibi went lame. I'd have had another horse saddled if I hadn't seen you, over my shoulder, join Mrs. Dysart."
"Too bad," he commented listlessly.
"Why? You had a perfectly good time without me, didn't you?"
"Oh, yes, pretty good. Delancy Grandcourt was out after luncheon, and when Rosalie left he stuck to me and talked about you until I let my horse bolt, and it stirred up a few mounted policemen and riding-schools, I can tell you!"
"Oh, so you lunched with Mrs. Dysart?"
"Yes. Where is Kathleen?"
"Driving," said the girl briefly. "If you don't care for any tea, there is mineral water and a decanter over there."
He thanked her, rose and mixed himself what he wanted, and began to walk leisurely about, the ice tinkling in the glass which he held. At intervals he quenched his thirst, then resumed his aimless promenade, a slight smile on his face.
"Has anything particularly interesting happened to you, Duane?" she asked, and somehow thought of Rosalie Dysart.
"No."
"How are your pictures coming on?"
"The portrait?" he asked absently.
"Portrait? I thought all the very grand ladies you paint had left town. Whose portrait are you painting?"
Before he answered, before he even hesitated, she knew.
"Rosalie Dysart's," he said, gazing absently at the lilac-bush in flower as the wind-blown curtain revealed it for a moment.
She lifted her dark eyes curiously. He began to stir the ice in his glass with a silver paper-cutter.
"She is wonderfully beautiful, isn't she?" said the girl.
"Overwhelmingly."
Geraldine shrugged and gazed into space. She didn't exactly know why she had given that little hitch to her shoulders.
"I'd like to paint Kathleen," he observed.
A flush tinted the girl's cheeks. She said nervously:
"Why don't you ask her?"
"I've meant to. Somehow, one doesn't ask things lightly of Kathleen."
"One doesn't ask things of some women at all," she remarked.
He looked up; she was examining her empty teacup with fixed interest.
"Ask what sort of thing?" he inquired, walking over to the table and resting his glass on it.
"Oh, I don't know what I meant. Nothing. What is that in your glass? Let me taste it.... Ugh! It's Scotch!"
She set back the glass with a shudder. After a few moments she picked it up again and tasted it disdainfully.
"Do you like this?" she demanded with youthful contempt.
"Pretty well," he admitted.
"It tastes something like brandied peaches, doesn't it?"
"I never noticed that it did."
And as he remained smilingly aloof and silent, at intervals, tentatively, uncertain whether or not she exactly cared for it, she tasted the iced contents of the tall, frosty glass and watched him where he sat loosely at ease flicking at sun-moats with the loop of his riding-crop.
"I'd like to see a typical studio," she said reflectively.
"I've asked you to mine often enough."
"Yes, to tea with other people. I don't mean that way. I'd like to see it when it's not all dusted and in order for feminine inspection. I'd like to see a man's studio when it's in shape for work—with the gr-r-reat painter in a fine frenzy painting, and the model posing madly–"
"Come on, then! If Kathleen lets you, and you can stand it, come down and knock some day unexpectedly."
"O Duane! I couldn't, could I?"
"Not with propriety. But come ahead."
"Naturally,