“My goodness, child,” she exclaimed, “you look ill indeed!” and folded her arms about her wasted figure.
Lady Lochore disengaged herself unceremoniously.
“Is that you, Aunt Sophy? Lord, you have grown stout! Ill? Of course I am! And your jolting roads are not likely to mend matters. Has the second coach come up? Where’s Josephine? Where is my boy?”
“The second coach is just rounding the avenue corner,” said Margery at her elbow, “please my lady.”
Lady Lochore wheeled round. Her movements were all restless and impatient, like those of a creature fevered. “Goodness, woman, how you made me jump!”
She put up her long handled eyeglasses and fixed the simpler and the parson with a momentary interest. Her white teeth shone in a smile soon gone. Hardly would she answer the rector’s elegantly turned compliment; but she vouchsafed a more flattering attention to Master Simon, as he bowed with an antiquated, severe courtesy that was quite his own.
“That’s cousin Simon! I remember him and all his little watch-glasses, tubes, and things. I hope you’ve got the little watch-glasses still, cousin. I used to like you. You made Bindon rather interesting, I remember.” She yawned, as if to the recollection of past dulness; an open unchecked yawn, such as your fine lady alone can comfortably achieve in company. “I hope you’ll make some little nostrum for me, something nice smelling to dab on a freckle, or kill a wrinkle with—I think I have a wrinkle coming under my left eye.”
She suddenly arrested the dropping impudent langour of her speech, clenched a fine gloved hand over the stick of her eyeglass and stared fixedly: Ellinor had come out and stood in a shaft of light, as she had an unconscious trick of doing, seeking the warmth instinctively as any frank young animal might.
A radiant thing she looked, grey-clad, with the gorgeous crimson of a summer rose at her belt, her crisp rebellious hair on fire, her chin and neck gold outlined.
“Who is this?” said Lady Lochore, in a new voice, as sharp as a needle. It was David who answered: