OUGLAS CAREY stepped out of the elevator and looked around him with a surprise which he was quite unable to conceal. Madame Sabinov laughed softly.
"What astonishes you?" she asked; "my white room?"
Carey turned to her, and his astonishment increased. Where he had thought to find a door there was nothing but a plain panel of the same unfamiliar silky white wood in which the apartment was carried out. Against it the black-sheathed figure of Madame Sabinov resembled an ebony statue.
She had removed her hat and a sort of cape which had formed part of her costume. The lithe black figure, the youthful, taunting beauty of her face, crowned with snowy hair, set his imagination on fire. Then his sense of humour awoke. He likened that charming head to a large powder-puff.
"You are smiling," she said.
"Yes," he replied. "You are very wonderful, and so is your room."
Indeed, it was worthy of his description. It was square, and panelled with white wood of a kind which Carey had never met with before. Its carved ceiling was dome-shaped, and the floor was completely covered with a plain golden carpet which possessed a sheen like that of human hair. There were some delicate etchings, gold-framed, some curious gilt furniture of very slender design, books and flowers, and a large antique harp.
These things, however, had not occasioned his astonishment. It had been due to the fact that the room possessed neither doors nor windows, but nevertheless was warmly illuminated as if by reflected sunlight.
Madame Sabinov seated herself in a long rest chair and lighted a cigarette, for she smoked almost continuously.
"You think this"—she waved her white hand—"an affectation, I suppose."
Carey, seated near her, glanced around him with a certain embarrassment; but before he had time to reply:
"Well, so it is," she added, "and nearly every room
in the house is equally preposterous, although some are
quite beautiful."
"This room is beautiful," said Carey hastily, "but
most unusual."
"Yes," Madame Sabinov's eyes turned slowly to right and left, languidly surveying the apartment. "A freak of the man who had this great big house reconstructed from cellar to roof."
"By whom was this done?" Carey asked.
"By M. de Trepniak," Madame replied simply. "This house was formerly his. He was good enough to make me a present of it. Please smoke. I know you don't like these amber things, but there are some perfectly good Virginians in the box at your elbow."
Carey's former embarrassment returned tenfold. He took a cigarette and lighted it, whilst Madame watched him through half-lowered lashes. He was not quite at one with his conscience respecting the motive which had prompted him to accept her invitation. Mrs. Lewisham had early dismissed him in favour of the Guardsman, and, having escorted Madame Sabinov to her house:
"Are you in a hurry, or will you stay and talk to me for a while?" she had said.
Now, here he sat in this curious white saloon. He was really anxious to learn if this woman had left the little ebony Buddha upon his table; but he could have asked her outright at Trepniak's. She was very alluring, very mysterious, and unless he had grossly misunderstood her, was living under the protection of the man whose home they had recently left.
He recognized that he had been silent too long, and, turning to Madame, he found the gaze of her sombre eyes set fixedly upon him. There was something in those long eyes which reminded him of night, of Eastern night; her lips were smiling, though.
"I had not realized that you were old friends," he said, rather awkwardly.
"No?" she murmured, continuing to watch him. "Well, we are not such very old friends. We met in Paris a year ago, and"—she shrugged her shoulders—"drifted together. Do I shock you just a little bit?"
"Not at all. Why should I be shocked?"
"Oh, I don't know," she answered, "there are so many Registrars in the world, you see. One friend of mine has been married five times—by which I mean that she has been divorced four times. I have been married once, only because"—she paused slightly—"he wished it. Yet my friend is received everywhere, and I am not. But I have no country of my own, so why should I conform to the customs of those I visit? And I have no religion. I was never taught one. So why should I pretend to respect what I cannot understand?"
She shrugged her shoulders again.
"No," Carey replied, and found himself wondering about her nationality as others had done before him.