So few
people have gardens in London.
Lady Sophy Browne, an ethereal-looking woman, with a consciously wan
smile and a grey chiffon frock, that looked as if it would have had to
be unpinned and unwound, rather than taken off, when bed-time came, put
her elbows on the table and clasped her hands under her chin.
"Do you know Rodin's Portrait d'un Inconnu?" she asked Joyselle.
"No, madame."
"But you know Rodin?"
"I have met him."
Ecstatic was her smile.
"I knew it. And unconsciously you were his model for the Inconnu. But it
is you, M. Joyselle! Do not deny it, for I know."
Joyselle took an olive.
"I do not deny it, Lady Sophy. But I know nothing of it. If you are
right I am--much flattered."
Brigit was amused, for she saw that the Spectre, as her friends called
the grey-draped peeress, had anticipated excitement and curiosity on
Joyselle's part.
There was music somewhere in the distance, and the air was sweet with
the smell of roses from the room behind them as well as from the garden
below.
Struther talked little, Brigit, with her usual indifference to others,
almost not at all, and as Joyselle's self-command rose only to the
height of an occasional reply to the Spectre's monologue, which was not
of an arresting nature, the party on the balcony was very quiet.
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