Vision House Part 15

Miss Marks was punctual that morning, as usual.

She looked like a creature of moods and storms and sudden revolts, but her behaviour as a typist-stenographer belied her appearance as a woman.

Not only was she always on time, but she was invariably correct in her deportment. Yes, "deportment" was the word! No other would have enough dignity to express Miss Marks.

As a rule, Mrs. Sorel came into the salon soon after the arrival of the secretary, leaving no idle interval after the preparation of paper, pencils, and sorting of letters. Zelie Marks remembered only one occasion when Miss Sorel had appeared before her mother. That was the day when she was anxious to find a certain letter in the bulky pile of correspondence, and make sure that no eye spied it save her own.

Zelie happened to be thinking of that affair to-day, when the door of Marise's bedroom opened and a Vision showed itself upon the threshold.

"Good morning, Miss Marks," it said.

"Good morning, Miss Sorel," echoed its paid employee.

The said employee would not have been human had she never felt qualms of envy of the Vision. Sometimes it was merely a negative discomfort like a grumbling tooth that doesn't quite ache. Sometimes it was sharply positive; and this was such a moment. Queer! Zelie always envied Marise most when she saw the girl in what Mrs. Sorel called "undress uniform."

There were few young women even among wage-earners who couldn't make a fairly brave show in a neat tailor gown or a "Sunday best" for Church Parade. But only the Truly Rich could have such heavenly "undies," and only the young and lovely--lovely of figure as well as of face--could look in them more thrilling than the wondrous wax ladies in shop windows, or the willowy dreams of line-artists in fashion magazines.

Zelie had never had, and felt that she never would have (though she was sure she _ought_ to have!) such things as Marise Sorel wore in her bedroom. They were utterly absurd, almost indecent, she told herself.

What could be more idiotic for cold weather than a pale pink, low-necked, short-sleeved chiffon nightgown, with the only solid thing about it a few embroidered wild roses! What more brainless than a _robe de chambre_ of deeper pink silk georgette, trimmed with sable fur in all the places where fur couldn't possibly give warmth?

She, Zelie Marks, wore comfortable delaine night-dresses at this time of year, and wadded kimonos. She respected herself for her economy and good sense. But she wished she were Miss Sorel!

"Miss Marks," said Marise, "can you keep a secret?"

Zelie smiled. "In my work, I have to keep a good many."

"I suppose you do! Well, will you keep one for me?"

"Certainly."

"That's a promise! Now--I shall surprise you very much."

Zelie smiled politely, and waited.

"I'm--going to be married."

"Pardon me, Miss Sorel," said Zelie, in rather a stilted, professional manner, "but that doesn't surprise me at all."

"You haven't heard the name of the man yet."

"No. You haven't _told_ me that."

"You mean, you believe you've guessed?"

"I hope you don't think me presumptuous?"

"Of course not! Why should it be--such a long word? Guessing's free! But I wonder if you _have_ guessed?"

Zelie allowed herself to look slightly bored. If Miss Sorel were going to be married, and leave for England, she wouldn't want a secretary long, so there was no need to grovel! "Do you wish me to try?" she asked primly.

"Yes."

"The Earl of Severance."

Marise had known she would say that, yet she blushed. "Lord Severance and I are quite old pals," she replied. "This is something much newer and more exciting! I'm going to marry your friend Major Garth."

There were few warmer-hearted girls, few who hated more to give pain, than Marise, yet as she spoke she fixed her eyes--minx-like, if not lynx-like--on the face of Miss Marks. Even when she saw it go pale--that greenish pallor of olive complexions--and then a dull, unbecoming red which gave the dark eyes a bloodshot effect, she wasn't conscious of repentance for what she had done. She had an odd, unpleasant feeling that Miss Marks had no right to turn pale and red about a man _she_ was going to marry. So instead of softening, she went on, hard as nails.

"Don't forget it's a _great_ secret. I want to spring a surprise on _everyone_. Will you please 'phone him--Major Garth--at the Belmore for me? I haven't got time now to call him myself. Just ask him to come round in three-quarters of an hour. I'll have had my coffee and be dressed by then, if I rush."

"Very well, Miss Sorel," agreed Zelie, controlling her voice. After which she added, "I hope you'll allow me to congratulate you."

Marise laughed a funny little laugh. "Thanks! But doesn't one 'wish joy'

to the bride and '_congratulate_' the bridegroom?"

By this time Zelie was at the telephone, but she turned, and her black eyes darted at Marise one small flame of the fire in her heart. "I wish you joy, of course," she said. "But I _must_ congratulate you too, because I've known Ja--Major Garth since before the war, and I know what he _is_. He's _great_! If you lumped together most of the best men you've met, they wouldn't make _one_ John Garth!"

"Ha ha! he _is_ very big!" giggled Marise. "Quite an out-size."

Zelie could have boxed the ears under the delicious boudoir cap. They deserved to be boxed!

"His _soul_ is big!" the older girl snapped. "I only hope you--I mean, there aren't many women capable of appreciating him. But, of course, you must be, or you wouldn't have succ.u.mbed to him so soon."

"Succ.u.mbed!" Marise flung back the word with just the least shrug of her shoulders. For an instant the two glared at each other, though "glare"

is a melodramatic word which doesn't chime well with nicely-brought-up girls in the twentieth century. When Marise, as a child, had looked at anyone in that way, she called it "snorting with her eyes."

Now, it was only for a third of a second. Then Miss Marks applied herself to the telephone, and never had her neat back looked so square and business-like. There was no more time to waste upon useless repartees with a secretary, so Marise bolted to her own room.

She meant and wished to be dressed and fed in three-quarters of an hour, but never had she quite brought off that feat--at least, never since she'd become a successful star; and she didn't quite bring it off now.

Her hair was being done when Mums tapped and entered upon the scene. She looked grave and rather worried, though she never actually frowned, for fear of wrinkles.

"That man Garth has come," she announced in a low voice. "What an hour for a call! Do you wish to see him?"

"I sent for him," Marise explained. "Didn't he tell you? Or haven't you spoken to him?"

"I have spoken to him, but he didn't tell me," said Mary Sorel. "I came into the salon, and there he was with Miss Marks. I was never so surprised in my life!"

"I don't see why, as you know perfectly well I'm going to marry him,"

returned Marise. "Oh, Celine! you've dug a hairpin about an _inch_ into my head! Now mind, whatever you hear us say must go no further."

"But certainly not, Mademoiselle," vowed Celine, who spoke excellent English, though the two ladies loved proudly to air their French for her benefit. "It is indeed true that Mademoiselle will marry this _Monsieur American_?"

"It is indeed true," Marise repeated drily.

"It won't take place--I mean the wedding--for some time, however," Mrs.

Sorel hurried to add.

Marise said nothing, but looked suddenly as mulish as a beautiful girl can look. She had been wondering whether or no to confide in Mums what was in her mind, and see what Mums would say and think about it. But on the instant she decided "_No_." She _knew_ beforehand what Mums would think and say. Everything would be from Tony's point of view. Mums was obsessed with the wonder and majesty and glory of the great--soon to be the rich--Lord Severance! The news should be sprung on Mums at the last moment, when everything was "fixed up."