Just as he entered the footman was saying: “A young person, ma’am. She had no card, and when I asked her name she only looked at me, ma’am.”
“Where did you put her?” asked Elizabeth.
“In the small reception-room.”
“Is the room warm?”
“Not very cold, ma’am.”
At this point Robert Burrell looked at his wife and said: “It is perhaps that little friend of yours, called Denas.”
“Jove!” ejaculated Roland. “I should not wonder. You know, Elizabeth, she was always an early visitor. Shall I go and see?”
“Frederick will go. Frederick, ask the young person her name.” In a few moments Frederick returned and said, “Miss Penelles is the name.”
Then Robert Burrell and Roland both looked at Elizabeth. She had a momentary struggle with herself; she hesitated, her brows made themselves into a point, her colour heightened, and the dead silence gave her a most eloquent chance to listen to her own heart. She rose with leisurely composure and left the room. Mr. Burrell and Roland took no notice of the movement. Mr. Burrell had 98 his watch in his hand; Roland was directing Frederick as to the particular piece of fowl he wanted. Then there was a little laugh and the sound of voices, and Elizabeth and Denas entered together. Elizabeth had made Denas remove her hat and cloak, and the girl was exceedingly pretty. Roland leaped to his feet and imperatively motioned Frederick to place a chair beside his own, and Robert Burrell met her with a frank kindness which was pleasantly reassuring.
Denas had been feeling wronged and humiliated, but Elizabeth by a few kind words of apology had caused a reaction which affected her inexperienced guest with a kind of mental intoxication. Her countenance glowed, her eyes sparkled, her hair appeared to throw off light; her ruby-coloured dress with its edges of white lace accentuated the marvellous colouring of her cheeks and lips, the snow-white of her wide brows and slender throat, and the intense blue of eyes that had caught the brightest tone of sea and sky.