The Oldest Flame by Elisabeth Grace Foley Page B

essence of a man’s character—the trial
by fire, so to speak. How he answers to that gives you the clue to
everything else about him.”
    “How do you think you would be in a crisis?”
inquired Mrs. Meade, gravely, but with a genial twinkle in her
eye.
    Mark reddened a little, but he answered, “I’d like to think I’d come out well…but I don’t see how I’ll
ever have the opportunity.”
    “Don’t give up, Mark,” said Mrs. Meade,
putting her hand out to him with a warm, affectionate manner that
acted upon him so far as to bring a somewhat forlorn smile to his
face. “Rose is young yet—she may not know just what it is she
wants. But don’t waste all your time waiting for your grand chance.
Just be ‘faithful in that which is least’—and perhaps one day
you’ll find your chance is come.”
    “Do you really think I could make my own
chance…that way?” said Mark, sounding a little doubtful, but with a
somewhat vacant look in his eyes, as if he was turning over an idea
in his mind.
    “Perhaps you could. Who knows?” said Mrs.
Meade, smiling again.
    “Yes,” said Mark, “who knows.”
     
    * * *
     
    When Mrs. Meade came through the open French
window into the sunny lower hall, a woman was just coming down the
staircase opposite. She was dressed for the evening, in white with
a pale peach-colored sash, a very simply cut dress that suited her
tall, spare style of beauty in such a way that Mrs. Meade
inadvertently paused to admire the effect. She had been introduced
to Eloisa Parrish on the preceding evening and had been similarly
struck by her appearance, but had had little or no success in
forming an acquaintance with her. Miss Parrish was a handsome young
woman of twenty-seven or twenty-eight, with a certain austerity
about her finely molded features and an almost haughty lift to her
narrow chin. She had remained silent and aloof through most of the
evening in the drawing-room, seemingly unmoved by any kind of
pleasantry or any topic of conversation.
    She paused for half an instant on the lowest
stair as her eyes fell on Mrs. Meade, as if she had not expected to
encounter anyone here or did not particularly want to. Mrs. Meade,
however, did not see this movement, or perhaps chose not to see
it.
    “Oh, good afternoon, Miss Parrish,” she said
pleasantly. “I was just on my way up to dress for dinner. It has
been so fine out that I’ve spent most of the day outdoors. Have you
seen much of the garden?”
    “No,” said Miss Parrish with the barest of
polite smiles, a slight curve of the lips that did not mean much.
“No, I have hardly been out of my room today.”
    “I hope you are not feeling ill?” said Mrs.
Meade. Her direct, yet considerate eyes took stock of the younger
woman’s face. “You look a little pale, if I may say so.”
    A door opened somewhere in the direction of
the drawing-room and voices drifted out, and over them rose the
sound of a young girl’s happy laugh. Neither woman’s eyes wavered,
but an almost contemptuous expression passed across Miss Parrish’s
face.
    She lifted her chin slightly, though not,
Mrs. Meade thought, so much with defiance as with the air of one
who would conceal some emotion. “I must have had a headache, I
suppose,” said Miss Parrish in a cool, ironical voice. “At least
that is what I must say if I’m asked. That is what we all say,
isn’t it, to hide a more embarrassing ailment—the desire for
solitude.”
    Without another word she moved past Mrs.
Meade and went out through the French window onto the terrace. Mrs.
Meade looked after her with a slightly perplexed expression, but at
nearly the same moment she heard footsteps behind her and turned
back as Mrs. Lansbury came into the hall.
    Mrs. Lansbury had entered in time to see Miss
Parrish disappear through the window, and to observe the expression
on Mrs. Meade’s face, and there was understanding in the smile
which she exchanged with her friend.
    “I hope I haven’t done anything