Mrs. Fox-Darriel’s eyebrows arched into her fringe. She got out of her chair trailingly.
“I will go into the garden. Lady Paton is there, Camelia? I think so. I know that you have reminiscences. I am in the way.”
“You are, rather,” said Perior, when she had gone out. “A very disagreeable face that, Camelia; how do the women manage to look so hard nowadays?”
“Thanks. She is a dear friend.”
“I am sorry for it. I hate to see eyes touched up; it gives me the creeps. I am sorry she is a dear friend.”
“I am afraid I shall often give you cause for sorriness.” Camelia stood by the mantelpiece, smiling most winningly. “Come, now, let us reminisce. I saw you last in London. Why didn’t you stop there longer?”
“I had enough of London to last me for a lifetime when I lived there,” said Perior. “I do go up for a bout of concerts now and then,” he added, and looking away from her he took up a large photograph that stood on the table beside him. “Is this the latest?”
“How do you like it?” she asked, leaning forward to look with him.
“It makes a very saintly little personage of you; but it doesn’t do you justice. Your Whistler portrait—the portrait of a smile—is the best likeness you’ll ever get.”
Camelia looked pleased, and yet a trifle taken aback.