ISS MARCIA PRESBY, a slim little woman of uncertain age, stood at her window overlooking the grass court of the Hôtel Ritz. Her gentle face wore an expression of disapproval.
At a second-story window, diagonally opposite, sat a young woman in a pink négligée, whose Titian top-knot caught the light with a metallic luster unknown to mere hair. It was upon these shimmering tresses that Miss Presby's glances of disapprobation were bent. She turned from her contemplation at the sound of an opening door.
“You are home early, dear,” she said, softly, as her sister entered.
Mrs. Wysong-Lord nodded, motioning to the negro boy who followed in her wake bearing a black-topped box.
“Where's Elise?” she asked. “Elise! Unpack my gown and return the box.”
The boy, whose dusky face showed an unwonted spirit of cowed humility, bowed respectfully, as he obeyed Mrs. Lord's gesture toward the adjoining room.
“You seem vexed,” Miss Presby ventured.
“I cannot understand”—Mrs. Lord drew off her gloves as if they were responsible for her irritation—“I cannot understand the way these French people receive the colored races. As I came down the hall just now, I found that boy in conversation with one of the maids; she was actually flirting—that is a coarse word, but the only one. It revolted me more than I can tell you. I recognized him as the Martiniquais they employ at Francis's, and overheard him ask for our number. I ordered him to follow me. You should have seen his manner change—he looked positively guilty. He knows his place well enough. The fault lies with these utterly regardless French who permit such liberties!”
She paused, abruptly.
“My dear, remember what Mr. Van Zeim says—'All souls are equal,'” admonished Miss Presby.
“All souls may be equal, but all bodies are not, Marcia. I am not narrow, but one must hold to the dignities of life. They are the safeguards of society.”
“I'm not disagreeing with you,” Miss Presby hastened to aver, “but you express yourself too strongly. I know what you mean, and you are quite right, but we must consider the point of view.”
“I have always found it difficult to adjust myself, and I fear I always shall.” Mrs. Wysong-Lord seated herself by the centre-table, and absently turned the pages of her daughter's latest purchase, “Les Vieilles Chançons de France.” “I observe that Americans in Paris appear to be affected by their surroundings to such an extent that they lose control of themselves. I cannot do that, Marcia, and I am glad of it.”
The boy from Francis's recrossed the room, his eyes fixed with respectful admiration upon the dignified figure of Mrs. Wysong-Lord.
“Here,” she ordered. He advanced, obsequiously. She dropped a fifty-centime piece into his yellow palm. “And the next time you are sent here to deliver anything, don't stop in the halls to talk, or I shall report you. You may go.”
He backed to the door, which he opened noiselessly, and slipped outside.
Mrs. Lord went to her bedroom, laid aside her simple traveling hat, and adjusted the smooth bands of her white, soft hair. Her refined, pale face was somewhat stern, her thin lips tightly closed. Her fine eyes were distant, though kindly, in expression. An exquisite tailor gown, faultless shoes, and the few well-chosen rings upon her slender, tapering fingers, all betokened refinement, and quiet, somewhat studied elegance.
The sound of loud feminine laughter and high-pitched conversation in the hallway brought her back to the sitting-room, a frown contracting her straight brows. She exchanged a glance with Miss Presby that, louder than words, proclaimed their mutual opinion.
“This is the worst of these large hostelries,” sighed Marcia. “I wish we could find some quiet family hotel. Of course, we are women of the world, and, aside from the annoyance, there can be no possible harm. But the influence of these caravansaries cannot but be detrimental to a young girl like Margot.”
Mrs. Lord nodded emphatic approval.