“Why, come to think of it, Miss Brooke, I believe the girl looks a bit like you! Did you ever chance to see this man? But then, of course, so many charming women look alike in those stunning shirt-waist things, you know. What do you make of the name?”
Brooke wished that he might babble on as long as possible, that she might learn the painting by heart and try to fathom the peculiarity of the shaft of light, but as he stopped she said, almost without thought, “Eucharistia! why may it not be the girl’s name?”
“By Jove! of course, we never thought of it!” said Ashton. “You’re growing quite pale from standing so long. You must have some punch. Do let me take you to the banquet hall; it’s jolly nice there—all small tables and souvenir menus in silver frames. I planned them, too, though Tiffany’s name _is_ on them. There’s Cousin Lucy, and the Bagby girls are waving to you now.” (“Yes, we’re under way, hold a table,” he signalled.) “We can cook up the concert while we feed,” and offering his arm, upon which Brooke laid her hand gratefully, for she felt a sudden weariness, he led her through the maze of skirts and furniture as skilfully and rapidly as if he had been her partner in the cotillon, and seated her at one of the little tables amid a bevy of her friends, who were discussing the house, the hostess, the flowers, the menus, and the fallen fortunes of poor Julia Garth in a most impartial way, and at the top of their voices.
“Of course it’s awful to suddenly drop from having your gowns from Paris, a maid, a private turnout, and keeping open house—or rather houses—and all that, to a flat somewhere in Brooklyn, with a sick mother, and trying to work off your music for a living,” said one shrill voice; “but then it is an awful bore, too, for us to have her on our minds. This concert is only the beginning, I suppose.”
“Julia plays delightfully, and we all have more or less chamber music during the winter, and one of us might take her to Lenox or Newport this summer,” said another, in a reproving tone; “and then among us all there are plenty of children for her to teach.”
“If she plays and sings for us all winter, that is sufficient reason why we shall be sick of her next summer,” said the first voice. “You know how it was with Mrs. Darcey Binks and her Creole songs. We thought we could not get enough of her. She thought she was settled here for life, and biff! the Spanish mandolin players knocked her out the second season. As for lessons, if you take up some one half out of charity, and then go South in the middle of a term, they will always whine about it, and you feel mean; a professional can take care of herself and always gets even, but doesn’t let you know it.”