The Million-Dollar Suitcase — John Stuart Mill — John Shaqi
The Million-Dollar Suitcase
John Stuart Mill · en
So we smoked, Worth indifferent, I giving all the attention to the
people over there: bride and groom; a couple of fair haired girls so
like the bride that I guessed them to be sisters; a freckled, impudent
looking little flapper I wasn't so sure of; two older men, and an older
woman. Then a shifting of figures gave me sight of a face that I hadn't
seen before, and I drew in my breath with a whistle.
"Whew! Who's the dark girl? She's a beauty!"
"Dark girl?" Worth had interest enough to lean into the place where I
got my view; after he did so he remained to stare. I sat and grinned
while he muttered,
"Can't be.... I believe it is!"
Something to make him sit up and take notice now. I didn't wonder at his
fixed study of the young creature. Not so dressed up as the others--I
think she wore what ladies call an evening blouse with a street suit; a
brunette, but of a tinting so delicate that she fairly sparkled, she
took the shine off those blonde girls. Her small beautifully formed,
uncovered head had the living jet of the crow's wing; her great eyes,
long-lashed and sumptuously set, showed ebon irises almost obliterating
the white. Dark, shining, she was a night with stars, that girl.
"Funny thing," Worth spoke, moving his head to keep in line with that
face. "How could she grow up to be like this--a child that wasn't
allowed any childhood? Lord, she never even had a doll!"
"Some doll herself now," I smiled.
"Yeh," he assented absently, "she's good looking--but where did she
learn to dress like that--and play the game?"
"Where they all learn it." I enjoyed very much seeing him interested.
"From her mother, and her sisters, or the other girls."
"Not." He was positive. "Her mother died when she was a baby. Her father
wouldn't let her be with other children--treated her like one of the
instruments in his laboratory; trained her in her high chair; problems
in concentration dumped down into its tray, punishment if she made a
failure; God knows what kind of a reward if she succeeded; maybe no more
than her bowl of bread and milk. That's the kind of a deal she got when
she was a kid. And will you look at her now!"
If he kept up his open staring at the girl, it would be only a matter of
time when the wedding party discovered him. I leaned back in my chair to
watch, while Worth, full of his subject, spilled over in words.
"Never played with anybody in her life--but me," he said unexpectedly.
"They lived next house but one to us; the professor had the rest of the
Santa Ysobel youngsters terrorized, backed off the boards; but I wasn't
a steady resident of the burg. I came and went, and when I came, it was
playtime for the little girl."
"What was her father? Crank on education?"