The Price of Things. Glyn Elinor
in his yellow-green eyes.
"But surely, she can see that you are laughing at her?" she exclaimed, astonished.
"It would convey nothing to her if she did."
"But you looked positively wicked."
"Possibly—I feel it sometimes when I think of Stanislass; he was a very good friend of mine."
Sir John Ardayre joined them at this moment and the three walked towards the supper room and the Russian said good-night.
"It is not good-bye, Madame. I, too, shall be in your country soon and I also hope that I may see you again before you leave Paris."
They arranged a dinner for the following night but one, and said au revoir.
An hour later the Russian was seated in a huge English leather chair in the little salon of his apartment in the rue Cambon, when Madame Boleski very softly entered the room and sat down upon his knee.
"I had to come, darling Brute," she said. "I was jealous of the English girl," and she fitted her delicately painted lips to his. "Stanislass wanted to talk over his new scheme for Poland, too, and as you know that always gets on my nerves."
But Verisschenzko threw his head back impatiently, while he answered roughly.
"I am not in the mood for your chastisement to-night. Go back as you came, I am thinking of something real, something which makes your body of no use to me—it wearies me and I do not even desire your presence. Begone!"
Then he kissed her neck insolently and pushed her off his knee.
She pouted resentfully. But suddenly her eyes caught a small case lying on a table near—and an eager gleam came into their hazel depths.
"Oh, Stépan! Is it the ruby thing! Oh! You beloved angel, you are going to give it to me after all! Oh! I'll rush off at once and leave you, if you wish it! Good-night!"
And when she was gone Verisschenzko threw some incense into a silver burner and as the clouds of perfume rose into the air:
"Wough!" he said.
CHAPTER II
"What are you doing in Paris, Denzil?"
"I came over for a bit of racing. Awfully glad to see you. Can't we dine together? I go back to-morrow." Verisschenzko put his arm through Denzil Ardayre's and drew him in to the Café de Paris, at the door of which they had chanced to meet.
"I had another guest, but she can be consoled with some of Midas' food, and I want to talk to you; were you going to eat alone?"
"A fellow threw me over; I meant to have just a snack and go on to a theatre. It is good running across you—I thought you were miles away!"
Verisschenzko spoke to the head waiter, and gave him directions as to the disposal of the lovely lady who would presently arrive, and then he went on to his table, rather at the top, in a fairly secluded corner.
The few people who were already dining—it was early on this May night—looked at Denzil Ardayre—he was such a refreshing sight of health and youth, so tall and fit and English, with his brown smooth head and fearless blue eyes, gay and debonnaire. One could see that he played cricket and polo, and any other game that came along, and that not a muscle of his frame was out of condition. He had "soldier" written upon him—young, gallant, cavalry soldier. Verisschenzko appreciated him; nothing complete, human or inanimate, left him unconscious of its meaning. They knew one another very well—they had been at Oxford and later had shot bears together in the Russian's far-off home.
They talked for a while of casual things, and then Verisschenzko said:
"Some relations of yours are here—Sir John Ardayre and his particularly attractive bride. Shall we eat what I had ordered for Collette, or have you other fancies after the soup?"
Denzil paid only attention to the first part of the speech—he looked surprised and interested.
"John Ardayre here! Of course, he married about ten days ago—he is the head of the family as you are aware, but I hardly even know him by sight. He is quite ten years older than I am and does not trouble about us, the poor younger branch—" and he smiled, showing such good teeth. "Besides, as you know, I have been for such a long time in India, and the leaves were for sport, not for hunting up relations."
Verisschenzko did not press the matter of his guest's fancies in food, and they continued the menu ordered for Collette without further delay.
"I want to hear all that you know about them, the girl is an exquisite thing with immense possibilities. Sir John looks—dull."
"He is really a splendid character though," Denzil hastened to assure him. "Do you know the family history? But no, of course not, we were too busy in the old days enjoying life to trouble to talk of such things! Well, it is rather strange in the last generation—things very nearly came to an end and John has built it all up again. You are interested in heredity?"
"Naturally—what is the story?"
"Our mutual great-grandfather was a tremendous personage in North Somerset—the place Ardayre is there. My father was the son of the younger son, who had just enough to do him decently at Eton, and enable him to scrape along in the old regiment with a pony or two to play with. My mother was a Willowbrook, as you know, and a considerable heiress, that is how I come out all right, but until John's father, Sir James, squandered things, the head of the family was always very rich and full of land—and awfully set on the dignity of his race. They had turned the cult of it into regular religion."
"The father of this man made a gaspillage, then—well?"
"Yes, he was a rotter—a hark-back to his mother's relations; she was a Cranmote—they ruin any blood they mix with. I am glad that I come from the generation before."
Denzil helped himself to a Russian salad, and went on leisurely. "He fortunately married Lady Mary de la Paule—who was a saint, and so John seems to have righted, and takes after her. She died quite early, she had had enough of Sir James, I expect, he had gambled away everything he could lay hands upon. Poor John was brought up with a tutor at home, for some reason—hard luck on a man. He was only about thirteen when she died and at seventeen went straight into the city. He was determined to make a fortune, it has always been said, and redeem the mortgages on Ardayre—very splendid of him, wasn't it?"
"Yes—well all this is not out of the ordinary line—what comes next?"
Denzil laughed—he was not a good raconteur.
"The poor lady was no sooner dead than the old boy married a Bulgarian snake charmer, whom he had picked up in Constantinople! You may well smile"—for Verisschenzko had raised his eyebrows in a whimsical way—this did sound such a highly coloured incident!
"It was an unusual sort of thing to do, I admit, but the tale grows more lurid still, when I tell you that five months after the wedding she produced a son by the Lord knows who, one of her own tribe probably, and old Sir James was so infatuated with her that he never protested, and presently when he and John quarrelled like hell he pretended the little brute was his own child—just to spite John."
Verisschenzko's Calmuck eyes narrowed.
"And does this result of the fusion of snake charmers figure in the family history? I believe I have met him—his name is Ferdinand, is it not, and he is, or was, in some business in Constantinople?"
"That is the creature—he was brought up at Ardayre as though he were the heir, and poor John turned out of things. He came to Eton three years before I left, but even there they could not turn him into the outside semblance of a gentleman. I loathed the little toad, and he loathed me—and the sickening part of the thing is that if John does not have a son, by the English