"That is your own fault, isn't it?" said Lucy, lightly.
"Conny has got it into her head that you don't care to see us."
"How can Conny be so silly?"
"Don't tell her I told you. She would be in no end of a wax," he added, as Phyllis and Constance pressed by them in the crush.
Gertrude was still standing near the doorway, sipping her tea, and looking about her with a rather wistful interest. She had caught here and there glimpses of familiar faces, faces from her own old world—that world which, taken en masse, she had so fervently disliked; but no one had taken any notice of the young woman by the doorway, with her pale face and suit of rusty black.
"I feel like a ghost," she said to Frank, as she handed him her empty cup.
"You do look horribly white," he answered, with genuine concern; "I wish you were looking as well as your sisters—Miss Phyllis for instance."
He glanced across as he spoke with undisguised admiration at the slim young figure, and blooming face of the girl, who stood smiling down with amiable indifference at one of his own canvasses.
Phyllis Lorimer belonged to that rare order of women who are absolutely independent of their clothes.
By the side of her old black gown and well-worn hat, Constance Devonshire's elaborate spring costume looked vulgar and obtrusive; and Constance herself, in the light of her friend's more delicate beauty, seemed bourgeoise and overblown.