The Oldest Flame Read Free Page A

work at the Cut. But I’m afraid I’ve never been able
to take an interest in the part of railroad business that concerns
stocks and shares and such, so I should be left in the dust if the
talk turned that way.”
    “Well,” said Steven Emery, smiling, in a
slightly lower voice, “you could be no less lovely listening than
speaking.”
    It was low enough that Mrs. Meade only caught
a part of the words, but Mark and Miss Parrish both heard it. The
effect on the former may be imagined, and it did nothing to improve
the latter’s humor either. All evening Miss Parrish had been
regarding Rose’s merriment with an air of disapproval worthy of an
unfeeling spinster aunt. The line of her fine, almost colorless
lips expressed something that approached dislike every time she
looked across at the younger girl. Every manifestation of
light-heartedness on Rose’s part seemed to grate on her, and she
did not even make an attempt to hide it.
    Rose could not speak for a full moment. The
conflicting feelings of delight and shyness glowed on her face like
changing lights, and she did something with her napkin on the edge
of the table to hide her confusion, looking for the moment even
younger than she was. Steven Emery seemed a little amused as well
as gratified at the effect of his compliment—and he had the
delicacy to wait until Rose’s heartbeat had steadied before he
spoke again.
    He leaned toward her slightly. “Perhaps this
is not the best conversation for a dinner-table either.”
    Rose flashed him a quick, daring glance from
her bright, long-lashed gray eyes. “Then you will have to think of
another place!”
     
    * * *
     
    After dinner the ladies withdrew to the
library, a large, pleasant room at the rear of the house that
overlooked the garden through several long French windows, which
stood partly open to admit the cool evening breeze. Mrs. Lansbury
and Mrs. Grey sat down together by common accord, but Miss Parrish
took a seat at some distance from them—and Mrs. Meade, after a few
seconds’ consideration, crossed the room and sat down in a chair
rather near to Miss Parrish than otherwise. She would have been
assured of a pleasant time in the company of her friends, but
somehow she did not feel it right to leave Miss Parrish alone. Miss
Parrish might choose to draw apart, might not wish to be disturbed,
but at least she should not have the opportunity to indulge in
self-pity over the fact that no one wanted to be near her—a
reaction Mrs. Meade judged as likely to follow as any other.
    Rose did not sit, but wandered lightly about
the room, looking at the titles of the books on the shelves and at
the oil painting above the fireplace, and eventually came to stand
at one of the windows, a few yards away from where Miss Parrish and
Mrs. Meade sat in pensive but not unfriendly silence. Mrs. Meade’s
eyes rested on Rose with a touch of the same fondness they had
earlier shown towards Mark. She had known Rose as a little child,
and now she was seeing her growing up into a woman. She was so
unconsciously lovely as she stood there with the tint of the sunset
light falling over her, one slender hand resting on the edge of the
open window, with her rich deep-gold curls swept up in that new
grown-up style that was still curious to see framing the familiar
little features of her face. And Mrs. Meade became aware that Miss
Parrish was silently watching the girl too, from her chair in the
shadow, and wondered why the gulf between those two, separated only
by moderate differences in age, character and style of beauty,
should in this instance be so very large.
    It was while she was thinking this that she
saw Rose’s expression change, and her attitude become one of
definite consciousness. Mrs. Meade looked out through the window
into the garden and saw that Steven Emery had just come into view
there, walking slowly with his hands in his pockets. He glanced up
toward the window, and smiled as he saw Rose standing there. The
smile