AT three that afternoon she stood in the vestibule of Brent's small house in Park Avenue overlooking the oblong of green between East Thirty-seventh Street and East Thirty-eighth.Amost reputable looking Englishman in evening dress opened the door; from her reading and her theater-going she knew that this was a butler.He bowed her in.The entire lower floor was given to an entrance hall, done in plain black walnut, almost lofty of ceiling, and with a grand stairway leading to the upper part of the house.There was a huge fireplace to the right; a mirror filled the entire back wall; a broad low seat ran all round the room.In one corner, an enormous urn of dark pottery; in another corner, a suit of armor, the helmet, the breastplate and the gauntlets set with gold of ancient lackluster.
The butler left her there and ascended the polished but dead-finished stairway noiselessly.Susan had never before been in so grand a room.The best private house she had ever seen was Wright's in Sutherland; and while everybody else in Sutherland thought it magnificent, she had felt that there was something wrong, what she had not known.The grandiose New York hotels and restaurants were more showy and more pretentious far than this interior of Brent's.But her unerring instinct of those born with good taste knew at first view of them that they were simply costly; there were beautiful things in them, fine carvings and paintings and tapestries, but personality was lacking.And without personality there can be no unity; without unity there can be no harmony--and without harmony, no beauty.
Looking round her now, she had her first deep draught of esthetic delight in interior decoration.She loved this quiet dignity, this large simplicity--nothing that obtruded, nothing that jarred, everything on the same scale of dark coloring and large size.She admired the way the mirror, without pretense of being anything but a mirror, enhanced the spaciousness of the room and doubled the pleasure it gave by offering another and different view of it.
Last of all Susan caught sight of herself--a slim, slightly stooped figure, its white dress and its big black hat with white trimmings making it stand out strongly against the rather somber background.In a curiously impersonal way her own sad, wistful face interested her.A human being's face is a summary of his career.No man can realize at a thought what he is, can epitomize in just proportion what has been made of him by experience of the multitude of moments of which life is composed.But in some moods and in some lights we do get such an all-comprehending view of ourselves in looking at our own faces.As she had instinctively felt, there was a world of meaning in the contrast between her pensive brow above melancholy eyes and the blood-red line of her rouged lips.
The butler descended."Mr.Brent is in his library, on the fourth floor," said he."Will you kindly step this way, ma'am?"Instead of indicating the stairway, he went to the panel next the chimney piece.She saw that it was a hidden door admitting to an elevator.She entered; the door closed; the elevator ascended rapidly.When it came to a stop the door opened and she was facing Brent.
"Thank you for coming," said he, with almost formal courtesy.
For all her sudden shyness, she cast a quick but seeing look round.It was an overcast day; the soft floods of liquid light--the beautiful light of her beloved City of the Sun--poured into the big room through an enormous window of clear glass which formed the entire north wall.Round the other walls from floor almost to lofty ceiling were books in solid rows; not books with ornamental bindings, but books for use, books that had been and were being used.By way of furniture there were an immense lounge, wide and long and deep, facing the left chimney piece, an immense table desk facing the north light, three great chairs with tall backs, one behind the table, one near the end of the table, the third in the corner farthest from the window; a grand piano, open, with music upon its rack, and a long carved seat at its keyboard.The huge window had a broad sill upon which was built a generous window garden fresh and lively with bright flowers.The woodwork, the ceiling, the furniture were of mahogany.The master of this splendid simplicity was dressed in a blue house suit of some summer material like linen.He was smoking a cigarette, and offered her one from the great carved wood box filled with them on the table desk.
"Thanks," said she.And when she had lighted it and was seated facing him as he sat at his desk, she felt almost at her ease.After all, while his gaze was penetrating, it was also understanding; we do not mind being unmasked if the unmasker at once hails us as brother.Brent's eyes seemed to say to her, "Human!--like me." She smoked and let her gaze wander from her books to window garden, from window garden to piano.
"You play?" said he.
"A very little.Enough for accompaniments to simple songs.""You sing?"
"Simple songs.I've had but a few lessons from a small-town teacher.""Let me hear."
She went to the piano, laid her cigarette in a tray ready beside the music rack.She gave him the "Gipsy Queen," which she liked because it expressed her own passion of revolt against restraints of every conventional kind and her love for the open air and open sky.He somehow took away all feeling of embarrassment; she felt so strongly that he understood and was big enough not to have it anywhere in him to laugh at anything sincere.When she finished she resumed her cigarette and returned to the chair near his.
"It's as I thought," said he."Your voice can be trained--to speak, I mean.I don't know as to its singing value....
Have you good health?"
"I never have even colds.Yes, I'm strong."
"You'll need it."
"I have needed it," said she.Into her face came the sad, bitter expression with its curious relief of a faint cynical smile.
