pose. She wore very short cloth skirts,—shortened by several years of wear
and mending, our acutely sympathetic young man guessed,—a knotted
handkerchief around her throat, and a soft felt hat. To this young woman,
who, Damier heard, had great talent and was miserably poor, Madame
Vicaud showed a peculiar tenderness. Sophie Labrinska had a look at once
weary and keen. She seldom spoke, but her face lighted up with a smile for
her hostess, and on Tuesdays she always played to them—and played with
an ungirl-like mastery and beauty of interpretation—a ballade, nocturne, or
mazurka of Chopin.
Lady Vibert and her daughter came too. They lived in a tiny flat near the
Bois, finding poverty in Paris more genial and resourceful than in England.
Miss Vibert, a fresh-colored young woman with prominent teeth, studied art
also, and for years had gone daily to a studio from which, each week, she
brought back to the tiny flat a life-size torso, very neatly painted. She and
her mother were cheerful, eager people, taking their Paris, their abonnement
at the Théâtre Français,—a rite they religiously fulfilled,—their bi-weekly
lecture at the Ecole de France, with a pleasant seriousness. Madame Vicaud
lifted her eyebrows and smiled a little, though very kindly, over Miss
Vibert’s artistic progress; but she was fond of her.
As for Claire, she showed little fondness, with one exception, for any of
her mother’s guests. Miss Vibert talked to her in clear, high tones, but Claire
spoke little to her, and only answered with her most slumberous smiles. For
Sophie she had neither smiles nor words. She ignored her—but not with an
effect of intentional ignoring; it was merely that the little Polish girl made
no advances, and unless she were advanced to, Claire, in her mother’s
salon, maintained an air of indolent detachment—except for one member of
it, the only one who could be said to recall, definitely, what there was of
bohemia in Madame Vicaud’s past. Monsieur Claude Daunay did no more
than recall it, for his bohemianism was of a most tempered quality,
consisting in a kindly indifference to smallnesses, a half-humorous choice
of the unconventional rather than an ignorant imprisonment in it. He was a
man of about fifty, and his massive gray head, Jovian hair and beard, his
kindly, wearied eyes and stooping yet stalwart figure, made him a
distinguished apparition at Madame Vicaud’s teas. She placed him,
sketched him for Damier in a few words, the most open that her reserve had
yet allowed her, and it was then only after a good many Tuesdays: “He
knew my husband, and was very kind to him, and to me, when we were in