At a quarter past eight that evening he turned into 66th Street, and crossed Mr. Van Osten, who had just come out of his house. Aldo saluted him respectfully, but Van Osten stood still and lit his cigar without appearing to notice the greeting.
He found Mrs. Van Osten alone, bare-shouldered, in black and diamonds. She was agitated and angry.
"You are late!" she cried.
"Forgive!" he said, kissing her hand.
She dragged it from him. "Did you meet my husband?"
"Yes," said Aldo.
"Did he see you?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure? Are you sure?" And she breathed quickly.
"Yes."
"He saw you? He saw you coming here and did not turn back–?" She stopped, and the narrow lips closed tightly. Aldo looked at her, and thought her positively ugly. She looked like a small, tight, thin, crumpled edition of Mrs. Doyle.
"Little young prairie-chicken," said Aldo to himself. But the butler came in with the coffee on a large silver tray, and the under-butler followed with the cream and sugar on another large silver tray. And the riches, the atmosphere of calm, powerful wealth, overcame Aldo's soul; his senses swam in satisfaction, and he felt that, however thin and small and crumpled she might be, he yet could return the prairie-chicken's love.
When the servants had left the room Aldo felt that he ought to speak. After a while he remembered what, once or twice, he had done with acceptable success in Italy when alone with a comparatively unknown woman. In a low voice he said:
"What is your name?"
Mrs. Van Osten raised glassy eyes. He repeated: "I do not yet know your name."
She took a sip of coffee, and said, very slowly and very clearly:
"Mrs.—Van—Osten."
"No—not that name," he said. "Your own name—your little name–"
There was a slight noise in the hall, and the outer door closed. Mrs. Van Osten heard it, and answered Aldo quickly with excited eyes.
"Marjory," she said.
Aldo bent forward over his coffee-cup. "Marjory?" he repeated softly.
It succeeded. It succeeded far better than he had expected, or than it usually did.
"Say it again!" she said quickly. "I like to hear it. Say it again. Quick!"
"Marjory!" exclaimed Aldo, bending nearer, just as the door opened and her husband came in.
She turned to him at once. "Oh, Bertie! You have come back?" and she laughed. Aldo looked at her. There was something in her voice and in her laugh that he knew. He had heard it in women's voices before. It was love. And love was in her eyes as she raised them to her husband's frowning face.
Then Aldo understood what he was there for. And more than ever, as he looked at Mr. Van Osten's powerful frame, did he realize that twenty dollars was little.
He stayed only a short time, during which he was sad, and silent, and bitter. And Mrs. Van Osten was pleased with his attitude. As he took his leave, he suddenly decided to show her that he had understood.
"Would you honour me by seeing 'Tannhäuser' from my box at the opera to-morrow night?"
A gleam shot at him from Mrs. Van Osten's sly eye. Her husband laid his large hand on his wife's bare shoulder.
"We are engaged," he said.
Mrs. Van Osten put her head against his arm.
"Indeed, we are more than that, Bertie," she said, looking up at him with an enamoured and rapturous smile.
Aldo bowed and withdrew.
The next day was Saturday. On his desk lay the mauve envelope, and in it was a hundred-dollar bill.
"I shall not need you now for a month or two, I believe," said Mrs. Van Osten wistfully. She had come over to his "office" early on the Monday morning. "But"—and she sighed deeply—"I do not suppose the effect you have had upon my husband will last for ever."
"Nothing does last for ever," said Aldo sententiously, seated before his desk.
"Then I shall send for you to come to the house again. Meanwhile, you might hang round a little in a general way," said Mrs. Van Osten. "You can send me flowers if you like. See that they are expensive ones. But don't come over often. If he once kicks you out, it will make everything impossible."
"Yes," said Aldo.
"Ah!" sighed Mrs. Van Osten; "why are such things necessary. Why are men such beasts?"
After a short pause Aldo spoke respectfully in a subdued voice: "May I ask who she is?"
"You are impertinent," said Mrs. Van Osten, "but I may as well tell you. Everyone knows. It is Madeline Archer, that dancing minx. She has made half the wives in New York miserable!"
Aldo made a little sympathizing, clucking sound with his tongue. Meanwhile his thoughts were quick and definite.
"If," he said, as she rose to go, "any friend of yours, one of the wives you have just mentioned, wanted—er—would like—er—thought that I could assist...."
"Oh!" cried Mrs. Van Osten, clasping her hands with peals of laughter, "you are a daisy! Oh, you take the pumpkin-pie! Upon my word! You are the greatest ever!" And she laughed and laughed, rocking to and fro.
Aldo laughed too, glad to think he was so funny.
"Before you know where you are, you'll be opening a bureau—'First Aid for Neglected Wives.' 'Perfect jealousy-arouser of the careless or the cooling husband. Diploma. References. Moderate tariff. Success guaranteed.'"
"Good idea!" said Aldo, laughing. And in a way he meant it.
She stopped laughing suddenly. "You won't turn out to be a blackmailer, will you?"
"No," said Aldo, looking at her straight from out of his beautiful eyes.
"I believe you," she said, putting out her hand. "Besides, Mum, who knows a thing or two about human nature, said that you were a good, soft old thing. And now," she added, with solemnity, "for what you have done for me, and the way you've scared Bertie into good behaviour, you may give me a kiss."
She put up her narrow mouth, and Aldo, laughing a little, kissed it.
" … I'm glad I have kissed a Count," said Mrs. Van Osten, as she went down the stairs.
VIII
It was a bright autumn day when Valeria in Milan received Nancy's letter from New York, telling her about those first weeks of misery.
Valeria had an income of two hundred francs a month, which Uncle Giacomo, who kept her securities for her, paid to her punctually; and which she as punctually paid over to Aunt Carlotta for her board and lodging, reserving apologetically thirty or forty francs for her own small needs. On the day the letter arrived, Valeria locked herself in her room, and went on her knees before Guido Reni's gipsy-faced Madonna. The Madonna must help Nancy. She, Valeria, must help Nancy.
Uncle Giacomo would give nothing that might fall into Aldo's hands; Carlo less than nothing; he would only reproach and recriminate. As for Nino, he had nothing to give. Aunt Carlotta would possibly lend five hundred francs with great difficulty and many warnings. So Valeria decided that she would raise some money from her own investments, and arrange to have a smaller income for a few years. Nancy must have money. So Valeria put on her hat and her black silk bolero coat with the lace jabot down the front, and brown kid gloves, and went out to face a stormy interview with Zio Giacomo.
The interview was stormy. Giacomo's temper shortened with his breath, and Valeria was wrung with anguish lest his anger should harm him, and was rent with remorse when she had succeeded in obtaining what she wanted. She would not say what the money was for, because she knew that Zio Giacomo would oppose it, so she was mysterious and wilful, hinted at tragic possi bilities, wept and warned, and finally left Zio Giacomo convinced that she had got herself into some serious financial scrape. "Ah, these silly women," said Zio Giacomo, watching Valeria tripping across the road, holding her violet leather handbag, her umbrella and her long skirts in confused hands. At one moment she was right under a horse's nose, but the driver pulled up suddenly, and the swerving carriage went on, carrying on its box a red-faced, head-shaking, remark-making, driver. "Silly women!" said Uncle Giacomo again, and returned wrathfully to his desk.