A hush, an involuntary suspension of knife and fork greeted her. The light through a western window fell full upon her golden head. The whiteness of her throat and hands was thrown into brilliant relief by the sombre dress she wore.
‘A saint of Holman Hunt’s—Early manner,’ thought a high-church curate, away on his four weeks’ holiday, and who never would know more of Dinah than the large sad eyes, the lips’ carnation, the nimbus of sunlight-coloured hair.
‘Can the complexion be absolutely real?’ floated through the brain of more than one duly aged and authorised feminine critic.
Miller, with his professional little run and smile, came forward. He ushered Dinah Arbuthnot to her place.
‘Mr. Gaston Arbuthnot not expected, I believe?’ asked the host, as Dinah prepared to take her seat.
‘No, Mr. Arbuthnot is dining at the Fort.’
‘And Mr. Geoffrey will not return till late. Then I may be allowed to fill this vacant chair? Thank you, madam. I should not have ventured to place a stranger next Mrs. Arbuthnot without permission.’
A minute later Dinah discovered—no stranger, but her husband’s friend, Lord Rex Basire, at her side.