The Impostor by Edgar Saltus

Camille rode up the river and raced back. The day before, she had done the same. The day before, the run had brought her the animal joy of living. But on this morning, the wind, the light, the breath of spring, the smell of lilacs, the fiery little cob, the eager glitter of the sky -- these things flushed her, reddened her lips, brightened her eyes, poured claret into the cream of her skin, powdered her face with dust, wilted her collar, made her hot and dirty, but not happy. The death of Mike oppressed her, and on that oppression had been superimposed Glendenning's utter obnoxiousness. The manner in which he had spoken of Revell had angered her, and in spite of the run, the memory of it rankled. None the less, as she told herself, it was queer about the will.

At the curb, a groom bobbed at her. She hopped off, patted the cob's wet nose, looked into his great and empty eyes, fed sugar into his dripping and ready mouth, flew in, flew up, tubbed, changed, and wished that she were a man and could hit out and swear.

But now Margaret, a maid, pale and plain, looked in with an announcement and a query. Luncheon was served, and would she see Mr. Revell?

Would she? Well, yes, since he was there, she supposed so, and she looked in the glass, dabbed her face with cologne, patted her hair, patted her frock, wondered what he wanted, and went on and into the drawing room.

Revell was seated. As she entered, he got up and she thought him even better looking than he had appeared on the previous evening. But at the moment, she got, too, another impression, and she out with it.

"I've seen you before. Where?"

Revell, with a movement of the hand, just sketched a gesture.

"In the street, perhaps. In the theater. I used to live here."

Camille shook her docked hair.

"Yes, I know. I've heard Mike speak of you. But could it have been in Europe?"

"Perhaps. But isn't it rather unimportant?"

"I don't know. Mike's father used to say that nothing is unimportant -- or was it that everything is? There! I've got it. I remember now. In the Louvre! Yes, the portrait of -- I've forgotten whom. But I remember the picture distinctly -- a man dressed for a fancy ball. You're not dressed that way, but you look just like him. Now will you have luncheon with me? In fact, you'll have to. I hear you are head of the house, such as it is, and I'm prepared to treat you with the greatest respect."

"But, you see, I don't want to be treated with respect, and moreover -- "

"And moreover luncheon is served. Will you come?"

She led the way. In the adjoining room, stood Archibald, at whom she motioned.

"A chair for Mr. Revell. Claret for Mr. Revell. The best there is for Mr. Revell, and all there is of it."

"Yes, mem. Yes, mem," Archibald got in, pottering about, pottering away.

"And moreover," the young man resumed, when the old man had gone, "I am not the head of the house. I'm not even the foot of it. I'm not in it at all. But if, technically and for the moment, I seem to have a shadow of a claim -- "

"Let me give you some of this," Camille interrupted.

"Thank you. If I have anything of the kind," Revell continued, "that's just the reason why I am here. I -- "