brows, her eyes narrow, unresponsive, severe with
thought under their delicate lids.

"I am sorry to be late, but it was unavoidable. I was kept by some
letters forwarded from Newlands," she said, without giving herself the
trouble of looking at Richard as she spoke.

"What does it matter? Luncheon's admittedly a movable feast, isn't it?"

Madame de Vallorbes made no response. A noticeable hush had descended
upon the whole company, while the men-servants moved to and fro serving
the newcomer. Even Lady Louisa Barking ceased to hold high discourse,
political or other, and looked disapprovingly across the table. An hour
earlier she had resented the younger woman's merry wit, now she
resented her sublime indifference. Both then and now she found her
perfect finish of appearance unpardonable. Lord Fallowfeild's disjointed
conversation also suffered check. He fidgeted, vaguely conscious that
the atmosphere had become somewhat electric.--"Monstrously pretty
woman--effective woman--very effective--rather dangerous though.
Changeable too. Made me laugh a little too much before luncheon. Louisa
didn't like it. Very correct views, my daughter Louisa. Now seems in a
very odd temper. Quite the grand air, but reminds me of somebody I've
seen on the stage somehow. Suppose all that comes of living so much in
France," he said to himself. But for the life of him he could not think
of anything to say aloud, though he felt it would be eminently tactful
to throw in a casual remark at this juncture. Little Lady Constance was
disquieted likewise. For she, girl-like, had fallen dumbly and
adoringly in love with this beautiful stranger but a few years her
senior. And now the stranger appeared as an embodiment of unknown
emotions and energies altogether beyond the scope of her small
imagination. Her innocent stare lost its ruminant quality, became
alarmed, tearful even, while she instinctively edged her chair closer
to her father's. There was a great bond of sympathy between the
simple-hearted gentleman and his youngest child. Mr. Quayle looked on
with lifted eyebrows and his air of amused forbearance. And Dr. Knott
looked on also, but that which he saw pleased him but moderately. The
grace of every movement, the distinction of face and figure, the charm
of that finely-poised, honey-coloured head showing up against the
background of gray-blue tapestried wall, were enough, he owned--having
a very pretty taste in women as well as in horses--to