Ratcliffe shot swift scrutiny from beneath his drawn brows at Diana’s surprised face, at Lord Rockhurst’s dark, impassive countenance and the Frenchwoman’s crimson cheeks and haggard eyes, imperceptibly shrugged his shoulders, and complied:—
“Cousin Diana—Madame de Mantes, who is kind enough to add her charming presence to our dwindling company to-night. Agreeably to our grandmother’s wish, I have been acting herald to her hospitality.”
Jeanne sank into the centre of her amber and blue draperies; emerged languorous, extended with queenly grace a hand to Foulkes and another to Sir John, and from the very sweep of her courtesies flung a condescending phrase at her rival:—
“Monsieur, your handsome cousin, has been so eloquent about you, madam, that ’tis almost as if I knew you already.”
“He is very kind,” faltered Diana, ill at ease, she scarce knew why. Then, mindful of her duty as hostess, “You know my Lord Rockhurst?”
The lady looked beyond them into the night of the garden.
“We have met,” she said in dreamy tones, and sailed into a third obeisance.
The two gentlemen of the Court instinctively drew together.
“What has come to that pretty piece from France? Her looks are oddly altered, think you not? And her manner is somewhat singular to-night. What makes she in this prim circle? She should be at Salisbury,” whispered Foulkes.
Sir John Farringdon jerked his thumb knowingly toward the Lord Constable; both looked, laughed, and wagged their heads. Rockhurst stepped forward and unostentatiously drew Diana away from Madame de Mantes. Lionel seized his moment:—