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Markue, in finally asking her to a party at his rooms, said that there she would resemble an Athenian marble, of the un-painted epoch, in the ballet of Scheherazade. "There's nothing special to say about Markue's parties," Judith, dressing, told Linda. "You will simply have to take what comes your way. There is always some one serious at them, if you insist, as usual, on dignity."
The gesture of her hands and lifted eyebrows were keenly expressive of her impatience with any one who couldn't accept, with her, her dog. "Markue ought to have it out," some one murmured. "Dogs, to high caste Mohammedans, are unclean animals." Another added, "Worse than that, if it should touch them, they would have to make the pilgrimage to Mecca."
There were, perhaps, twenty people in the two rooms, and each one engaged her attention. A coffee-colored woman was sitting beyond her, clad in loose red draperies to which were sewed shining patterns of what she thought was gold. Markue was introducing Judith, and the seated figure smiled pleasantly with a flash of beautiful teeth and the supple gesture of a raised brown palm.
That wasn't necessary, and now, probably, he was back from South America. Where, except by accident, might she see him? Markue, with his parties, had dropped from Judith's world, his place taken by a serious older dealer in Dutch masters with an impressive gallery just off Fifth Avenue.
"Quite a show," he said in the manner she had expected and approved. The glow of his cigarette wavered over firmly cut lips. "We've just come to New York," he continued. "I don't know any one here but Markue, do you?" Linda explained her own limitations. "The Victory's fine and familiar." She followed his gaze to where a winged statue with flying drapery was set on a stand.
"It would never do for Pansy," she concluded; "but I must get Markue to ask you sometime, Linda. How old are you now? Well, that's practically sixteen, and you are very grown up. You would be quite sensational, in one of your plain white frocks, in his apartment. You'd have to promise not to tell your mother, though. She thinks I'm leading you astray now the old dear. Does she think I am blind?
Her interest was not in whom or what she might meet, but in herself. Judith, smoking a cigarette in a mist of silver fox, was plainly excited. "I like Markue awfully," she admitted. "Does he care for you?" Linda asked. "That," said Judith, "I can't make out if he likes me or if it's just anonymous woman. I wish it were the first, Linda."
It was so dim and full of thick scent, the shut effect was so complete, that for a moment Linda felt painfully oppressed; it seemed impossible to breathe in the wavering bluish atmosphere. Markue, who had appeared sufficiently familiar outside, now had a strange portentous air; the gleams of his quick black eyes, the dusky tone of his cheeks, his impassive grace, startled her.
"There's Pleydon, the sculptor," the youth told her animatedly. "I've seen him at the exhibitions. It must be Susanna Noda, the Russian singer, with him. He's a tremendous swell." Linda watched Pleydon as he met Markue in the middle of the room. He was dressed carelessly, improperly for the evening; but she forgave that as the result of indifference.
"And if men have fingers like carrots " Susanna mimicked him. Judith, flushed, her hair loosened, approached. "Linda," she demanded, "do you remember when we ordered the taxi? Was it two or three?" Markue, at her shoulder, begged her not to consider home. "I'm going almost immediately," Pleydon said, "and taking your Linda." His height and determined manner scattered all objections.
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