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I clambered on my particular Berber's back, dear Albert in my arms, and we splashed merrily along; but Captain No. 1, who turned the scales at seventeen stone two pounds, had not so uneventful a landing. Twice his bearer halted, and the warrior, abandoning himself to his fate, swore he would make the Berber's nose probe the sand if he stumbled.
Then it seemed to her as if the sky must roll up like a scroll and the earth collapse into a handful of dust falling through space, for she knew that little Gargoyle of the "undressed mind" little Gargoyle, looking out of John Berber's trained eyes as out of windows of ground glass, was flitting like a shadow across her own intelligence, trying to tell her what things he had always known about life and death, and the myriads of worlds spinning back in their great circles to the Power which had set them spinning.
The transom was open, and through it Mary, who had paused on the landing to button her glove, overheard Miss Berber's valedictory pronouncement. "The English are a remarkable race remarkable. Character in them is fixed in us, fluid." Mary sped down the first flight, in terror of hearing Stefan's reply.
Not until this ministrant had seated herself at the foot of Miss Berber's couch did that lady refer to Stefan's request. Then, propping herself on her elbow, she at last looked full at Mary. What she saw evidently pleased her, for she allowed herself a slight smile. "Ah," she breathed, "an evening, or a house gown?" "Evening," interposed Stefan.
"Miss Berber, I want you to create a gown for my wife. I am sure when you look at her you will be interested in the idea." Stefan expected every one to pay tribute to Mary's beauty. Again Miss Berber's fingers strayed. The nymph appeared. "How long have I, Chloris? ... Half an hour? Then send me Daphne. You notice the silence, Mr. Byrd? It rests my clients, brings health to their nerves.
Miss Berber's pin-prick must have been severe, Mary thought, if it resulted in a compliment for her. The next evening, Mary being alone, Wallace dropped in. For some time they talked of Jamie and Elliston, and of Mary's book. He was Scotch to-night, as he usually was now when they were alone together. Cheerful as ever, his cheer was yet slow and solid the comedian was not in evidence.
Bending, he kissed Miss Berber's hand in the continental manner. Mary, watching, felt a tiny prick of jealousy. "He never kissed my hand," she thought, and instantly scorned herself for the idea. The designer smiled languidly up at Stefan. "I am happy," she murmured. "No fittings, Mrs. Byrd. We rarely fit, except the model gowns. You will have the garment in a week. Au revoir." Her eyes closed.
Then to Mary, "You look your best decolletee, you know." "Englishwomen always do," murmured Miss Berber. "Will you kindly take off your hat and coat, and stand up, Mrs. Byrd?" Mary complied, feeling uncomfortably like a cloak model. "Classic, pure classic. How seldom one sees it!" Miss Berber's voice became quite audible. "Gold, of course, classic lines, gold sandals. A fillet, but no ornaments.
Doctor Milton, dropping into the smoking-room of a popular confrère, got a whiff of the prevailing gossip about his protégé. "I'll be hanged if I can associate psychics with a biceps like Berber's; somehow those things seem the special prerogative of anemic women in white cheese-cloth fooling with 'planchette' and 'currents." "You've got another guess," a growling neurologist volunteered.
"How seldom one hears a beautiful voice," she uttered. "Chairs, Mrs. Byrd, destroy women's beauty. Why sit, when one can recline? My clients may not wear corsets; reclining encourages them to feel at ease without." Mary found Miss Berber's affectations absurd, but this explanation heightened her respect for her intelligence. "Method in her madness," she quoted to herself.
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