He was a man who from his birth upward had followed the desire of the hour, for evil or for good; mainly, not for good. His desire now was to become acquainted with the exquisitely pretty girl whom his eyes pursued. Bluntly abandoning the question (from a physiological side) of macaroons, he addressed himself to the Archdeaconess. Did Madame Corbie—the polka by now had stopped, Lord Rex could ask his question without a shout—did Madame Corbie know the name of the girl who was walking with Marjorie Bartrand of Tintajeux? ‘Golden-haired girl—straight features, the loveliest complexion in the world,’ added Lord Rex, with the frankness of a momentarily real feeling.
‘It will be my husband’s cousin once removed, Ella Corbie of La Hauterive,’ observed Madame Corbie blandly. ‘The Hauterive yellow roses are fine this year. I have not a word to say against their “Celine Forestier.” But, in my poor opinion, the Archdeacon’s “Maréchal Niel” ought to have taken the prize. Yes, yes,’—Madame Corbie gazed through her smoked spectacles into the perspective of history—‘Ella Corbie is still nice looking. I remember her, dressed for her first evening party, more than a dozen years ago, and now——’
‘My dear Madame Corbie! I beg a thousand pardons, your cup is empty—allow me to set it down,’ interrupted Lord Rex Basire.
For at this precise moment the perfect features, the lovely complexion, were again setting towards him in the crowd.
But Madame Corbie, the head of our local society, rose to the occasion, and to her feet.
‘Let me have a good look, Lord Rex, and if it is my cousin Ella, I will introduce you to her. A young lady walking, you say, with Marjorie Bartrand? That is certainly most unlike Ella! The Hauterive family keep so exclusively to themselves. Still——’
‘There they are—coming this way, by Jove!’ cried Lord Rex breathlessly. ‘You see the girl I mean? Splendid girl in black—lace ruffle—a red rose lying on her hair?’
Madame Corbie looked through her smoke-coloured glasses straight. Then she looked through her smoke-coloured glasses obliquely. Then she pushed them high away on her ample forehead, and gazed stoically upward in the broad light of the merry June day.
‘The person,’ she pronounced, with awful solemnity, ‘who is walking with Marjorie Bartrand of Tintajeux does not belong to this island.’