Short Fiction · A Transaction In Hearts (3/12) (2/2)

Leïlah swinging in a hammock in a garden of Ispahan was less clothed, perhaps, but not more indolent, than she. At sight of her he seemed to catch some echo of ghuzlas and cithars. From above the lamplight shuttled her curls. On one ankle which the negligent fold of her frock disclosed, glittered a gold thread, the clockwork of the stocking. As he approached there came to greet him the clean odor of acorns and of pines.

Suddenly the curtain must have claimed his attention, for for a moment he busied himself with it. Then he turned again to where she lay.

“Did you ride this morning?” he asked, and, without waiting for an answer, he added at once, “You don’t get this Indian summer over there, do you? H’m. Rather close, though, don’t you think? By the way,”⁠—he had been talking at the wall, but now he looked at her⁠—“by the way, Claire, whose trap was that at the door this afternoon? Rather neat, I thought.”

And Claire, with that inappositeness which constitutes one of the crimes which the law cannot reach, murmured from the tips of her lips, “I say, would you mind lowering that wick?”

Gonfallon did as he was bidden, adding, as he moved to the lamp, “That brougham, I mean. The man on the box had two pair of reins; I counted them.”

“Is Ruth coming down?”

“I think not. She is expecting McMasters. Whose affair did you say it was?”

“The brougham, you mean?⁠—bottle-green, with yellow wheels? Yarde’s, I fancy.”

“Ah, yes⁠—that young fellow that crossed in the steamer with you. I thought⁠—h’m⁠—however⁠—Claire, do you know he is not at all the kind of a man for you to know? Someone happened to speak of him the other day. To oblige Ruth and myself, I wish the next time he calls you would send word you are not visible. You see⁠—”

The girl interrupted him with a yawn: “It was that lamp over there I meant.” And as she spoke she covered her mouth with her hand.

“You see, Claire,” Gonfallon continued, after he had attended to her behest⁠—“you see, while I presume that this young man is not in any way personally offensive, yet, er⁠—well, he is not of a class that we care to have you associate with.”

“Ah?”

“Not of that class at all.”

Claire raised herself a little on the lounge and looked up at Gonfallon. “And what class is it that you prefer?” she asked.

“H’m. Well, Claire, this Mr. Yarde is notoriously a loose fish. It is unnecessary that I should particularize; but we prefer that you only see men whose intentions are honorable.”

Claire laughed. “There aren’t any,” she answered, and let her head fall back on the cushion.