Free Bat-Wing by Sax Rohmer Page B

with such a temperament is as a rule unreasonably jealous
of youth and good looks in another. I could not determine if Madame's
attitude were to be ascribed to complacent self-satisfaction or to a
nobler motive. It sufficed for me that she took an unfeigned joy in the
youthful sweetness of her companion.
    "Val, dear," she said, presently, addressing the girl, "you should make
those sleeves shorter, my dear."
    She had a rapid way of speaking, and possessed a slightly husky but
fascinatingly vibrant voice.
    "Your arms are very pretty. You should not hide them."
    Val Beverley blushed, and laughed to conceal her embarrassment.
    "Oh, my dear," exclaimed Madame, "why be ashamed of arms? All women
have arms, but some do well to hide them."
    "Quite right, Marie," agreed the Colonel, his thin voice affording an
odd contrast to the deeper tones of his cousin. "But it is the scraggy
ones who seem to delight in displaying their angles."
    "The English, yes," Madame admitted, "but the French, no. They are too
clever, Juan."
    "Frenchwomen think too much about their looks," said Val Beverley,
quietly. "Oh, you know they do, Madame. They would rather die than be
without admiration."
    Madame shrugged her shoulders.
    "So would I, my dear," she confessed, "although I cannot walk. Without
admiration there is"—she snapped her fingers—"nothing. And who would
notice a linnet when a bird of paradise was about, however sweet her
voice? Tell me that, my dear?"
    Paul Harley aroused himself and laughed heartily.
    "Yet," he said, "I think with Miss Beverley, that this love of elegance
does not always make for happiness. Surely it is the cause of half the
domestic tragedies in France?"
    "Ah, the French love elegance," cried Madame, shrugging, "they cannot
help it. To secure what is elegant a Frenchwoman will sometimes forget
her husband, yes, but never forget herself."
    "Really, Marie," protested the Colonel, "you say most strange things!"
    "Is that so, Juan?" she replied, casting one of her queer glances in
his direction; "but how would you like to be surrounded by a lot of
drabs, eh? That man, Mr. Knox," she extended one white hand in the
direction of Colonel Menendez, the fingers half closed, in a gesture
which curiously reminded me of Sarah Bernhardt, "that man would notice
if a parlourmaid came into the room with a shoe unbuttoned. Poof! if we
love elegance it is because without it the men would never love
us
."
    Colonel Menendez bent across the table and kissed the white fingers in
his courtier-like fashion.
    "My sweet cousin," he said, "I should love you in rags."
    Madame smiled and flushed like a girl, but withdrawing her hand she
shrugged.
    "They would have to be
pretty
rags!" she added.
    During this little scene I detected Val Beverley looking at me in a
vaguely troubled way, and it was easy to guess that she was wondering
what construction I should place upon it. However:
    "I am going into the town," declared Madame de Stämer, energetically.
"Half the things ordered from Hartley's have never been sent."
    "Oh, Madame, please let
me
go," cried Val Beverley.
    "My dear," pronounced Madame, "I will not let you go, but I will let
you come with me if you wish."
    She rang a little bell which stood upon the tea-table beside the urn,
and Pedro came out through the drawing room.
    "Pedro," she said, "is the car ready?"
    The Spanish butler bowed.
    "Tell Carter to bring it round. Hurry, dear," to the girl, "if you are
coming with me. I shall not be a minute."
    Thereupon she whisked her mechanical chair about, waved her hand to
dismiss Pedro, and went steering through the drawing room at a great
rate, with Val Beverley walking beside her.
    As we resumed our seats Colonel Menendez lay back with half-closed
eyes, his glance following the chair and its occupant until both were
swallowed up in the shadows of the big drawing room.
    "Madame de Stämer is a very remarkable woman," said Paul Harley.
    "Remarkable?" replied the Colonel. "The spirit of all the old