The Four of Hearts Read Online Free PDF

professional observers of the scène célèbre. He felt impatient to meet the mysterious Miss Paris, who concocted such luscious news from this salmagundi.
    But the next room was another parlour in which another young woman sat taking notes as a hungry-looking man in immaculate morning clothes whispered to her.
    â€˜The weeding-out process,’ he thought, fascinated. ‘She’d have to be careful about libel, at that.’
    And he entered the third room at a nod from the second young woman to find himself in a wall-papered chamber full of maple furniture and sunlight, with tall glass doors giving upon a flagged terrace beyond which he could see trees, flower-beds, and a very high stone wall blanketed with poinsettias.
    â€˜How do you do, Mr. Queen,’ said a pure diapason.
    Perhaps his sudden emergence into the light affected his vision, for Mr. Queen indubitably blinked. Also, his ears still rang with that organ sound. But then he realized that that harmonious concord of musical tones was a human female voice, and that its owner was seated cross-kneed in a Cape Cod rocker smoking a Russian cigarette and smiling up at him.
    And Mr. Queen said to himself on the instant that Paula Paris was beyond reasonable doubt the most beautiful woman he had yet met in Hollywood. No, in the world, ever, anywhere.
    Now, Mr. Queen had always considered himself immune to the grand passion; even the most attractive of her sex had never meant more to him than someone to open doors for or help in and out of taxis. But at this historic moment misogyny, that crusted armour, inexplicably cracked and fell away from him, leaving him defenceless to the delicate blade.
    He tried confusedly to clothe himself again in the garments of observation and analysis. There was a nose – a nose, yes, and a mouth, a white skin … yes, yes, very white, and two eyes – what could one say about them? – an interesting straight line of grey in her black-lacquer hair … all to be sure, to be sure. He was conscious, too, of a garment – was it a Lanvin, or a Patou, or a Poirot? – no, that was the little Belgian detective – a design in the silk gown; yes, yes, a design, and a bodice, and a softly falling skirt that dropped from the knee in long, pure, Praxitelean lines, and an aroma, or rather an effluvium, emanating from her person that was like the ghost of last year’s honeysuckle … Mr. Queen uttered a hollow inward chuckle. Honeysuckle! Damn analysis. This was a woman. No – Woman, without procrusteanizing article. Or … was … it … the Woman?
    â€˜Here, here,’ said Mr. Queen in a panic, and almost aloud. ‘Stop that, you damned fool.’
    â€˜If you’re through inspecting me,’ said Paula Paris with a smile, rising, ‘suppose you be seated, Mr. Queen. Will you have a highball? Cigarettes at your elbow.’
    Mr. Queen sat down stiffly, feeling for the chair.
    â€˜To tell the truth,’ he mumbled, ‘I’m – I’m sort of speechless. Paula Paris. Paris. That’s it. A remarkable name. Thank you, no highball. Beautiful! Cigarette?’ He sat back, folding his arms. ‘Will you please say something?’
    There was a dimple at the left side of her mouth when she pursed her lips – not a large, gross, ordinary dimple, but a shadow, a feather’s touch. It was visible now. ‘You speak awfully well for a speechless man, Mr. Queen, although I’ll admit it doesn’t quite make sense. What are you – a linguistic disciple of Dali?’
    â€˜That’s it. More please. Yahweh, thou hast given me the peace that passeth understanding.’
    Ah, the concern, the faint frown, the tensing of that cool still figure. Here, for heaven’s sake! What’s the matter with you?
    â€˜Are you ill?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Or –’
    â€˜Or drunk. Drunk you were going to say. Yes, I am drunk. No,