Читать книгу The Carcellini Emerald, With Other Tales онлайн

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Nor had Carmichael, in a much wider experience. His ears tingled, his heart beat with angry resentment. By not the quiver of an eyelash had Eunice betrayed emotion at sight of him, face to face. If he had been the footman, just then engaged in projecting a silver dish between her arm and her neighbor’s, she could not more utterly have ignored his claim to her acquaintance.

“Evidently it’s just as well Mrs. Farnsworth did not sit next to you,” pursued Gertrude, at an age to look for little beyond externals. “I did not expect ever to see the great Mr. Carmichael come such a nasty cropper. She must be the only one of the ‘crowned heads’ who doesn’t smile on you. But I must say she’s the freshest and prettiest of the lot. When I get to be as old as some women I know, I’m going to stop playing kitten and settle down to be plain cat. Eunice Farnsworth’s jewels are simply wonderful. Not as showy as some, but very fine. Mamma says our Cousin Arden has always had the most perfect taste in precious stones. The only time mamma ever got ahead of him in a purchase was in the Carcellini emerald, a relic from an old cardinal’s sale, I think. It was offered in Paris when papa and mamma were there—oh, long ago, when I was a little kid. Cousin Arden’s order by cable, to buy it, came to the dealer just after papa had drawn a check in payment. Don’t know the Carcellini emerald? Why, it’s famous everywhere. The only thing approaching it in beauty and value belongs to one of the Russian Grand Duchesses. Mamma generally wears it at dinner, and I dare say she has it on now. If you have really never seen it, I’ll ask her to send the ring down for us to look at.”