"Oh, your sister is far and away too clever for me."
"Gertrude is clever, but not in the way you mean."
"Nevertheless, I am horribly afraid of her."
Darrell went over to the piano and sang a little French song, with perfect art, in his rich baritone. Gertrude watched him, as he sat there playing his own accompaniment, and a vague terror stole over her of this irreproachable-looking person, who did everything so well; whose quiet presence was redolent of an immeasurable, because an unknown strength; and who, she felt (indignantly remembering the cold irony of his glance) could never, under any circumstances, be made to appear ridiculous.
At the end of the song, Phyllis came over to Gertrude.
"Aren't we going, Gerty?" she said; "It is quite unfashionable to 'make a night of it' like this. One is just supposed to look round and sail off to half-a-dozen other studios."
Lord Watergate, who stood near, caught the half-whispered words, and smiled, as one smiles at the nonsense of a pretty child. Gertrude saw the expression of his face as she answered—
"Yes, it is time we went. Tell Lucy; there she is with Mr. Jermyn."
Darrell came over to them as they were going, and shook hands, first with Gertrude, and then with Phyllis.
"Thank you," he said to the latter, "for a very pleasant afternoon."