Ladies Must Live

								

beautiful; and he could not help slowing down a little. She
stopped, with her hand on the banisters, like Louise of Prussia.
“Oh, you’re Mr. Riatt,” she said, very gently. “You know you’re
most awfully late.”
“I wish,” he said, “that I were wise enough to be able to say: ‘Oh,
you’re Miss ----’”
“I might be a Mrs.”
“Oh, I hope not,” he answered. “Are you?”
She smiled.
“You’ll know as soon as you come down to dinner.”
“I shall be quick about dressing.”
He went on up, and she pursued her slow progress down. She felt
that her future had been settled by those few seconds on the stairs.
“He will do admirably,” she said to herself, and a smile like that
of a sleeping infant curved her lips. She felt calmly triumphant.
She had always said there was no reason why even a rich man should
be absolutely impossible. She recalled certain great fortunes with
repulsive owners, which some of her friends had accepted. For
herself she had always intended to have everything--love and money,
too. And here it was, almost in her hands. There had been moments
when she had been so discouraged that she had actually made up her
mind to marry Ned Hickson. How wise she had been to hold off!
She leant her arm on the mantel-piece and studied herself in the
mirror. It was a Chinese painted mirror, and the tint of the
glass was green and unbecoming, yet even this could not mar the
dazzling reflection. The only object on which she looked with
dissatisfaction was her string of pearls; they were imitation. She
thought she would have emeralds; and she heard clearly in her own
inner ear this sentence: “Yes, that is young Mrs. Max Riatt; is she
not very beautiful in her emeralds!”
Fortunately she did not say it aloud, for Mrs. Ussher came down
at this moment, and soon Hickson, and then in an incredibly short
space of time Riatt himself.
Undoubtedly he would do magnificently. He stood the test even of
evening clothes, though Christine fancied as she studied him that
she would alter his style of collars. They would be better higher.
Mrs. Ussher brought him over at once and introduced him.
“This is my cousin Max, Christine, about whom I’ve talked so much.
Max, this is Miss Fenimer.”
They smiled at each other with a common impulse not to confess that
earlier meeting on the stairs; and he was just about to settle down
beside her, when the door opened and, last of all, Mrs. Almar came
in. She was wearing her flame-color and lilac dress. Christine
knew she would have it on; knew that she saved it for the greatest
moments. She did not advance very far into the room, but stood
looking around her.
“Well,” she said, “where is Cousin Max?”
It must not be supposed from this question that she had not seen
him almost through the crack of the door as the butler opened it
for her; but by speaking just when and where she did, she forced
him to get up from Christine’s side, and come to where she was