‘Mrs. Arbuthnot? Surely that is the same person we saw with Marjorie Bartrand at the rose-show? How wonderfully handsome she is! Mamma has talked of nothing else. One will be quite too glad to see her near. In these democratic days we must all bow unquestioningly before Beauty. The capital B renders it abstract.’
Lord Rex felt the speech to be ungenerous. Vague questionings that he had once or twice held within himself, as to whether he might or might not be in danger of liking Miss Verschoyle too well, received an impromptu solution at this moment. He was in no danger at all: held the local estimate of her good looks, even, to be overstrained. As she stood before him, in her fulness of youthful grace, the delicate profile held aloft, the little cruel sentences escaping, one by one, from her pouting red lips, Rosie’s prettiness seemed changed to Rex Basire as though the wand of some malignant fairy godmother had secretly touched her.
‘My political opinions outstep democracy, Miss Verschoyle. But if I were as starched a Tory as—as my own father, by Jove! I should think Mrs. Arbuthnot’s society an honour. I don’t understand that sort of thing, the tone people put on in speaking of a woman whose only crime is her beauty.’
‘Mrs. Arbuthnot, if she needs a defender, is fortunate in possessing so warm a one.’
The remark was made by Rosie Verschoyle with unwise readiness.
‘But one could never imagine her, poor dear, needing anything of the kind.’ It was Linda Thorne who spoke. ‘I have been introduced to Mrs. Arbuthnot by her husband. I have heard about her, also from him, and I am sure she is quite the most harmless of individuals. Not naturally bright! Like too many other gifted creatures, Mr. Arbuthnot may know the want of household sympathy——’
‘Gets along capitally without it,’ interrupted Lord Rex. ‘Never saw any man better satisfied with himself and with his life than Arbuthnot.’
‘Not naturally bright, and lacking the education which, in more fortunate people, serves as a varnish to poorness of ability. If they stay here long enough I shall persuade Mr. Arbuthnot, as a duty, to make his wife take lessons—in music, riding, calisthenics, anything to beguile her from that patient, that perpetual cross-stitch.’
Lord Rex gave a searching look at Linda Thorne’s face. His was no very high or luminous character, as will be seen in the after course of this history. Yet were his failings chiefly those of his age and circumstances. When he erred it was without premeditation, walking along tracks trodden hard by others. His virtues were his own, and among these was the virtue of thorough straightforwardness. It trembled on Lord Rex’s tongue to ask Linda a crucial question relative to Gaston Arbuthnot’s ‘duty,’ when approaching footsteps made themselves heard along the gravel drive. There came a shrill shout of welcome in Rahnee’s voice, a torrent of pigeon English, presumably from the ayah, in which the words ‘Missy ’Butnot’ might be distinguished. Linda Thorne’s Indian-bleached cheeks assumed a just perceptible shade of red.