"Yes, the beauty in white," softly echoing Mrs. Llewellyn's query. He leaned forward and with eager eyes gazed in admiration at the new-comer. He seemed hypnotized by the vision, which moved slowly from between the blue-tinted portières and stood for the instant, a perfect embodiment of radiant womanhood, silhouetted against the silken drapery.
"That is Miss Wallace, Miss Mildred Wallace, only child of one of New York's prominent bankers."
"She is beautiful--a queen by divine right," cried he, and then with a mingling of impetuosity and importunity, entreated his hostess to present him.
Mrs. Llewellyn's entertainments were celebrated, and justly so. At her receptions one always heard the best singers and players of the season, and Epicurus' soul could rest in peace, for her chef had an international reputation. Oh, remember, you music-fed ascetic, many, aye, very many, regard the transition from Tschaikowsky to terrapin, from Beethoven to burgundy with hearts aflame with anticipatory joy--and Mrs. Llewellyn's dining-room was crowded.
Miss Wallace and Diotti had wandered into the conservatory.
"A desire for happiness is our common heritage," he was saying in his richly melodious voice.
"But to define what constitutes happiness is very difficult," she replied.
"Not necessarily," he went on; "if the motive is clearly within our grasp, the attainment is possible."
"The miser is happy when he hoards his gold; the philanthropist when he distributes his. The attainment is identical, but the motives are antipodal."
"Then one possessing sufficient motives could be happy without end?" she suggested doubtingly.
"That is my theory. The Niobe of old had happiness within her power."
"The gods thought not," said she; "in their very pity they changed her into stone, and with streaming eyes she ever tells the story of her sorrow."
"But are her children weeping?" he asked. "I think not. Happiness can bloom from the seeds of deepest woe," and in a tone almost reverential, he continued: "I remember a picture in one of our Italian galleries that always impressed me as the ideal image of maternal happiness. It is a painting of the Christ-mother standing by the body of the Crucified. Beauty was still hers, and the dress of grayish hue, nun-like in its simplicity, seemed more than royal robe. Her face, illumined as with a light from heaven, seemed inspired with this thought: 'They have killed Him--they have killed my son! Oh, God, I thank Thee that His suffering is at an end!' And as I gazed at the holy face, another light seemed to change it by degrees from saddened motherhood to triumphant woman! Then came: 'He is not dead, He but sleeps; He will rise again, for He is the best beloved of the Father!'"