Raymond was perfectly aware that it was not a pleasure, even for her,
that, for several years past, things should have gone so ill in New York
with his family and himself. His father's embarrassments, of which
Marian's silly husband had been the cause and which had terminated in
general ruin and humiliation, to say nothing of the old man's 'stroke'
and the necessity, arising from it, for a renunciation on his own part
of all present thoughts of leaving home again and even for a partial
relinquishment of present work, the old man requiring so much of his
personal attention--all this constituted an episode which could not fail
to look sordid and dreary in the light of Mrs. Temperly's high success.
The odour of success was in the warm, slightly heavy air, which seemed
distilled from rare old fabrics, from brocades and tapestries, from the
deep, mingled tones of the pictures, the subdued radiance of cabinets
and old porcelain and the jars of winter roses standing in soft circles
of lamp-light. Raymond felt himself in the presence of an effect in
regard to which he remained in ignorance of the cause--a mystery that
required a key. Cousin Maria's success was unexplained so long as she
simply stood there with her little familiar, comforting, upward gaze,
talking in coaxing cadences, with exactly the same manner she had
brought ten years ago from California, to a tall, bald, bending, smiling
young man, evidently a foreigner, who had just come in and whose name
Raymond had not caught from the lips of the _maitre d'hotel_. Was he
just one of themselves--was he there for Effie, or perhaps even for
Dora? The unexplained must preponderate till Dora came in; he found he
counted upon her, even though in her letters (it was true that for the
last couple of years they had come but at long intervals) she had told
him so little about their life. She never spoke of people; she talked of
the books she read, of the music she had heard or was studying (a whole
page sometimes about the last concert at the Conservatoire), the new
pictures and the manner of the different artists.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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