Confidence. Генри Джеймс

in her. This view of the case was confirmed by Gordon Wright’s presently turning away to talk with Mrs. Vivian, so that his friend might be at liberty to make acquaintance with their companion.

      Though she had not been with the others at Siena, it seemed to Longueville, with regard to her, too, that this was not the first time he had seen her. She was simply the American pretty girl, whom he had seen a thousand times. It was a numerous sisterhood, pervaded by a strong family likeness. This young lady had charming eyes (of the color of Gordon’s cravats), which looked everywhere at once and yet found time to linger in some places, where Longueville’s own eyes frequently met them. She had soft brown hair, with a silky-golden thread in it, beautifully arranged and crowned by a smart little hat that savoured of Paris. She had also a slender little figure, neatly rounded, and delicate, narrow hands, prettily gloved. She moved about a great deal in her place, twisted her little flexible body and tossed her head, fingered her hair and examined the ornaments of her dress. She had a great deal of conversation, Longueville speedily learned, and she expressed herself with extreme frankness and decision. He asked her, to begin with, if she had been long at Baden, but the impetus of this question was all she required. Turning her charming, conscious, coquettish little face upon him, she instantly began to chatter.

      “I have been here about four weeks. I don’t know whether you call that long. It does n’t seem long to me; I have had such a lovely time. I have met ever so many people here I know—every day some one turns up. Now you have turned up to-day.”

      “Ah, but you don’t know me,” said Longueville, laughing.

      “Well, I have heard a great deal about you!” cried the young girl, with a pretty little stare of contradiction. “I think you know a great friend of mine, Miss Ella Maclane, of Baltimore. She ‘s travelling in Europe now.” Longueville’s memory did not instantly respond to this signal, but he expressed that rapturous assent which the occasion demanded, and even risked the observation that the young lady from Baltimore was very pretty. “She ‘s far too lovely,” his companion went on. “I have often heard her speak of you. I think you know her sister rather better than you know her. She has not been out very long. She is just as interesting as she can be. Her hair comes down to her feet. She ‘s travelling in Norway. She has been everywhere you can think of, and she ‘s going to finish off with Finland. You can’t go any further than that, can you? That ‘s one comfort; she will have to turn round and come back. I want her dreadfully to come to Baden-Baden.”

      “I wish she would,” said Longueville. “Is she travelling alone?”

      “Oh, no. They ‘ve got some Englishman. They say he ‘s devoted to Ella. Every one seems to have an Englishman, now. We ‘ve got one here, Captain Lovelock, the Honourable Augustus Lovelock. Well, they ‘re awfully handsome. Ella Maclane is dying to come to Baden-Baden. I wish you ‘d write to her. Her father and mother have got some idea in their heads; they think it ‘s improper—what do you call it?—immoral. I wish you would write to her and tell her it is n’t. I wonder if they think that Mrs. Vivian would come to a place that ‘s immoral. Mrs. Vivian says she would take her in a moment; she does n’t seem to care how many she has. I declare, she ‘s only too kind. You know I ‘m in Mrs. Vivian’s care. My mother ‘s gone to Marienbad. She would let me go with Mrs. Vivian anywhere, on account of the influence—she thinks so much of Mrs. Vivian’s influence. I have always heard a great deal about it, have n’t you? I must say it ‘s lovely; it ‘s had a wonderful effect upon me. I don’t want to praise myself, but it has. You ask Mrs. Vivian if I have n’t been good. I have been just as good as I can be. I have been so peaceful, I have just sat here this way. Do you call this immoral? You ‘re not obliged to gamble if you don’t want to. Ella Maclane’s father seems to think you get drawn in. I ‘m sure I have n’t been drawn in. I know what you ‘re going to say—you ‘re going to say I have been drawn out. Well, I have, to-night. We just sit here so quietly—there ‘s nothing to do but to talk. We make a little party by ourselves—are you going to belong to our party? Two of us are missing—Miss Vivian and Captain Lovelock. Captain Lovelock has gone with her into the rooms to explain the gambling—Miss Vivian always wants everything explained. I am sure I understood it the first time I looked at the tables. Have you ever seen Miss Vivian? She ‘s very much admired, she ‘s so very unusual. Black hair ‘s so uncommon—I see you have got it too—but I mean for young ladies. I am sure one sees everything here. There ‘s a woman that comes to the tables—a Portuguese countess—who has hair that is positively blue. I can’t say I admire it when it comes to that shade. Blue ‘s my favorite color, but I prefer it in the eyes,” continued Longueville’s companion, resting upon him her own two brilliant little specimens of the tint.

      He listened with that expression of clear amusement which is not always an indication of high esteem, but which even pretty chatterers, who are not the reverse of estimable, often prefer to masculine inattention; and while he listened Bernard, according to his wont, made his reflections. He said to himself that there were two kinds of pretty girls—the acutely conscious and the finely unconscious. Mrs. Vivian’s protege was a member of the former category; she belonged to the genus coquette. We all have our conception of the indispensable, and the indispensable, to this young lady, was a spectator; almost any male biped would serve the purpose. To her spectator she addressed, for the moment, the whole volume of her being—addressed it in her glances, her attitudes, her exclamations, in a hundred little experiments of tone and gesture and position. And these rustling artifices were so innocent and obvious that the directness of her desire to be well with her observer became in itself a grace; it led Bernard afterward to say to himself that the natural vocation and metier of little girls for whom existence was but a shimmering surface, was to prattle and ruffle their plumage; their view of life and its duties was as simple and superficial as that of an Oriental bayadere. It surely could not be with regard to this transparent little flirt that Gordon Wright desired advice; you could literally see the daylight—or rather the Baden gaslight—on the other side of her. She sat there for a minute, turning her little empty head to and fro, and catching Bernard’s eye every time she moved; she had for the instant the air of having exhausted all topics. Just then a young lady, with a gentleman at her side, drew near to the little group, and Longueville, perceiving her, instantly got up from his chair.

      “There ‘s a beauty of the unconscious class!” he said to himself. He knew her face very well; he had spent half an hour in copying it.

      “Here comes Miss Vivian!” said Gordon Wright, also getting up, as if to make room for the daughter near the mother.

      She stopped in front of them, smiling slightly, and then she rested her eyes upon Longueville. Their gaze at first was full and direct, but it expressed nothing more than civil curiosity. This was immediately followed, however, by the light of recognition—recognition embarrassed, and signalling itself by a blush.

      Miss Vivian’s companion was a powerful, handsome fellow, with a remarkable auburn beard, who struck the observer immediately as being uncommonly well dressed. He carried his hands in the pockets of a little jacket, the button-hole of which was adorned with a blooming rose. He approached Blanche Evers, smiling and dandling his body a little, and making her two or three jocular bows.

      “Well, I hope you have lost every penny you put on the table!” said the young girl, by way of response to his obeisances.

      He began to laugh and repeat them.

      “I don’t care what I lose, so long—so long—”

      “So long as what, pray?”

      “So long as you let me sit down by you!” And he dropped, very gallantly, into a chair on the other side of her.

      “I wish you would lose all your property!” she replied, glancing at Bernard.

      “It would be a very small stake,” said Captain Lovelock. “Would you really like to see me reduced to misery?”

      While this graceful dialogue rapidly established itself, Miss Vivian removed her eyes from Longueville’s face and turned toward her mother. But Gordon Wright checked this movement by laying his hand on Longueville’s shoulder and proceeding to introduce his