He looked at her with a gleam of sadness in his eyes, the knob of the door in his hand.
“My dear Elida,” he expostulated, “you know very well that the only feeling I dare permit myself to have for you is one of sincere admiration.”
CHAPTER XVIII
His Excellency the Marchese Marius di Vasena, Ambassador from Italy to the Court of St. James’s, threw himself back in his chair and held out his hands to his unexpected visitor with a gesture of astonishment. He waved his secretary away. It had really been a very anxious week and this was a form of relaxation which appealed to him.
“Elida!” he exclaimed, embracing his favourite niece. “What on earth does this mean? I saw pictures of you last week with all the royalties at Monte Carlo. Has your aunt any idea?”
“Not the slightest,” Elida laughed.
“But how did you arrive?”
“Oh, I just came,” she replied. “I did not arrive direct. I had some places to visit on the way. As a matter of fact, I left Monte Carlo a fortnight ago. Yesterday I was in Paris but I had a sudden feeling that I must see you, dear Uncle. So here I am!”
“And the need for all this haste?” the Ambassador asked courteously, as he arranged an easy-chair for his niece. “If one could only believe that it was impatience to see your elderly but affectionate relative!”
She laughed—a soft rippling effort of mirth.
“I am always happy to see you, my dear Uncle, that you know,” she assured him. “That is why I was so unhappy when you were given London. Yesterday, however, a great desire swept over me.”
“And that was—?”
“To attend the American Ambassador’s dance to-night at Dorrington House. I simply could not resist it. Aunt will not mind. You are going to be very good-natured and take me—yes?”
The smile faded from the Ambassador’s face.
“I suppose that can easily be arranged,” he admitted. “It will not be a very gay affair, though. In diplomatic circles, it is rather our close season.”
Elida—she was certainly a very privileged niece—leaned forward and drew out one of the drawers of her uncle’s handsome writing table. She helped herself to a box of cigarettes and lit one.
“Yet they tell me,” she confided, “I heard it even in Monte Carlo, that just now England or Washington—no one is certain which; perhaps both—are busy forging thunderbolts.”
“No news of it has come my way,” the Ambassador declared, with a benevolent smile. “If one were ever inclined to give credence to absurd rumours, one would look rather nearer home for trouble.”
She leaned over and patted his cheek.
“Dear doyen of all the diplomats, it is not you who would tell your secrets to a little chatterbox of a niece! It seems a pity, for I love being interested.”
“Carissima,” he murmured, “to-night at Dorrington House you will find ten or a dozen terribly impressionable young Americans, two or three of them quite fresh from Washington. You will find English statesmen even, who have the reputation of being sensitive to feminine charms such as yours and who have not the accursed handicap of being your uncle. You will find my own youthful staff of budding diplomats, who all imagine that they have secrets locked away in their bosoms far more wonderful than any which have been confided to me. You will be in your glory, dear Elida, and if you find out anything really worth knowing about these thunderbolts, do not forget your poor relations!”
She made a little grimace at him.
“You have always been inclined to make fun of me, have you not, since I became a serious woman?”
The Marchese assumed an austere air and tone.
“I do not make fun of you,” he assured her. “If I am not too happy to see you wrapped up in things which should be left to your elders, it is because there is no excitement without danger, and it was not intended that a young woman so highly placed, so beautiful as you, should court danger.”
“Me—court danger?” she exclaimed with wide-open eyes.
The Ambassador’s gesture dismissed her protest with a shade of impatience.
“You have the misfortune, my dear niece,” he continued, “to be by birth and education an amazing example of modern cosmopolitanism. Your sister is married to a German princeling, whose father is aiming at being Chancellor of Germany and who is himself a prominent figure in this latest upheaval. Your aunt is almost the only remaining French aristocrat who is permitted to interest herself—behind the scenes naturally—in French politics. Both your brothers, my nephews, have made their mark in our own country and are reported to be ambitious.”
“Is all this the prelude to an eulogy or a lecture?” Elida asked.
“Neither,” her uncle answered. “It is just that I am going to take the privilege of a near relative and an elderly man, who has at any rate won his spurs in diplomacy, to give you a word of advice. There is no place to-day, no seemly and dignified place, for women in the underground galleries of diplomacy. Spies there must always be and always have been. Cocottes have generally been the most successful, but I need not remind you of their inevitable fate. The profession is not elastic enough to include members of the great families of Europe.”
There was a brief silence. A puff of wind stole into the room through the open windows, bent the lilac blossoms in their vases and wafted their perfume into the further recesses of the stately apartment. A Louis XVI clock of blue and gold inlay chimed the hour merrily. Elida moved uneasily in her chair. No one in the world had ever spoken to her like this.
“What have you been hearing about me?” she asked.
The Marchese shrugged his shoulders.
“One hears,” he murmured. “One does not necessarily listen. Now, if you take my advice, you will present yourself to your aunt. She is resting for a time in her rooms and taking a new face treatment from some New York wizard. She will like to know that you are here. By the by, we dine at home—only one or two very dull people—and we leave for Dorrington House at ten-thirty.”
She gave his arm a gentle squeeze and kissed his forehead.
“I have sent my maid to see which are my rooms,” she said. “As soon as I have had a bath, I will present myself. Perhaps Aunt Thérèse will hand over the new treatment to me. A dignified and unadorned middle age is all the mode nowadays.”
“You go and tell her so,” her uncle remarked, with a smile.
* * * * *
The Marchese suffered from a fit of unusual restlessness after the departure of his favourite niece. He left his chair and paced the room, his hands behind his back, an anxious frown upon his forehead. He was an exceedingly handsome man of the best Italian type, but he seemed during the last few months to have grown older. The lines in his face were deeper, his forehead was furrowed, he had even acquired a slight stoop. He was a conscientious politician and withal an astute one. There were certain features of the present situation which filled him with uneasiness. He took up the house telephone and spoke in rapid Italian. In a few minutes a quietly dressed young man presented himself. He carried a locked volume under his arm. The Ambassador summoned the servant who brought him in.
“Close all the windows,” he ordered. “See that I am not disturbed until I ring the bell.”
The man obeyed with the swiftness of the well-trained Italian. The Ambassador reseated himself at his desk. He took a key from his chain and unlocked the volume.
“The