ADAME motioned slightly with her green silk parasol. She turned in her in order to see a little further down the precipitous avenue.
“Our circle broadens,” she murmured. “It is only by a matter of hours, Hugh, that you secured the honor of being the first comer.”
They were seated upon the terrace, awaiting the summons to luncheon, Madame dressed as though for the promenade at Longchamps, speckless, faultlessly immobile, from the tips of her manicured fingers to the delicate but seemly touch of color upon her cheeks. By her side, Hugh Cardinge, the arrival of yesterday, in cool white flannels, sat smoking a cigaret and gazing abstractedly up into the hills. Claire Fantenay, seated a little apart, was writing a letter upon a block. Armand, leaning against the balustrade, was watching her.
“My Virgins return in strange guise,” Madame continued. “You, my dear Hugh, appear as a tramp. Our friend here resembles a bourgeois shopkeeper moving to his villa for the week-end.”
Armand swung round. He had spent several years at an English public school, and was inclined to cultivate a certain slanginess of phrase.
“Who is the old johnny?” he demanded. “And what's he bringing with him?”
“He appears to be some sort of itinerant artist,” Hugh Cardinge declared.
“I do not remember such a person amongst my Virgins,” Madame remarked. “We shall soon know.”
An ancient victoria, drawn by a scraggy, flea-bitten horse, came creaking around the last bend of the avenue. The driver walked by the side of his steed, cracking his whip, eloquent in phrases of mingled threats and encouragement. His seat was occupied by an enormous easel. The body of the vehicle seemed almost filled with luggage of an indiscriminate character, amongst which sat a rather portly, neatly dressed man, in gray tweeds, with a flowing black tie, and gray Homburg hat. As the carriage crept up to the front steps the newcomer waved his hand to the little group. Madame leaned back with half-closed eyes. It was a habit of hers when she feared that she might be tempted to laugh.
“It is Johnny,” she murmured.
“Johnny Fardell, by Jove!” Cardinge echoed, as he rose to his feet.
The occupant of the victoria descended and made a dignified approach—dignified, that is to say, so far as a rather squat figure, a protuberant waistcoat and a consequential air, would permit.
“No longer 'Johnny,' if you please,” he begged. “At any rate, until we have picked up the old threads, if ever we do. I am Sir John Fardell. Who is this? Cardinge! God bless my soul! Cardinge! Well, if there was one of our little company whom I should have expected to have gone to the dogs first and quickest—forgive me. I am lacking in tact, perhaps. Madame, I kiss your fingers. You are marvelous.”
She smiled at him languidly.
“So long as you do not tell me that I have learned the secret of perennial youth,” she said, “you may rave about me as long as you like. This is my niece Claire, and my nephew Armand. They are cousins, not brother and sister. And now, my dear man, sit down fora moment while William brings you a cocktail and tell us precisely what evil genius wafted you into the paths of virtue.”
“My art,” Sir John confided pompously. “I found it impossible to combine the irregular life with the pursuit of my ideals.”
He had become the center of the little group. They looked at him with varying expressions.
“Are you an R. A.?” Cardinge asked.
“Not yet,” was the regretful admission. “I shall be, on the next vacancy.”
“But, my dear John,' Madame reminded him, while you were in Paris you had a studio for three years, and you never painted anything. As regards morals you were the Bluebeard of your profession. Time after time I have visited your studio to find the walls bare, and your easel as virgin as your reputation.”
“I laid foundation stones in Paris,” Sir John declared, disposing of the cocktail which had been brought to him, in a single gulp. “Where can I wash my hands before luncheon? I am very hungry and very dirty.”
Armand stepped gracefully forward.
“Let me show you, sir,” he invited.
The two disappeared inside the house. Cardinge and Madame exchanged amused glances. Claire smiled across at them.