The kindness made itself felt in his voice and look when he answered her:
‘Almost the last time you and I saw each other we followed stage directions side by side. Have you forgotten those New Year charades of Madame Benjamin’s?’
‘I have forgotten nothing,’ exclaimed Mrs. Thorne, with a sharpish accent. ‘I have remembered you, Mr. Arbuthnot; I have thought of you, hoped for your happiness all these years. Now, at length, I am called upon to witness it.’
She gave a glance at Dinah, patiently enduring the Doctor’s statistics, then went on with a sort of effort:
‘You must let me congratulate you. I am blunt, matter-of-fact—just as I used to be.’ Certainly Linda Thorne was at no pains to modulate her voice. ‘Mrs. Arbuthnot is simply beautiful. Those matchless lines of profile! Those soft waves of gold above her brow!’
‘You like that way she has with her curls? I am answerable for it. It took exactly fifteen months to convince Dinah that a woman may wear short hair upon her forehead, yet save her soul alive.’
‘And the lips, the chin! I believe Mrs. Arbuthnot’s face is the first I have ever seen without a flaw.’
Linda spoke as one might speak of a shell cameo, of a china vase, of a lily modelled in wax.
Gaston Arbuthnot mentally translated the chill distinct tone, with edification to himself.