Half unconsciously she contemplated her surroundings, the imposing grand piano, blackwood carved furniture, upholstered in red damask, marble-topped tables, Indian rugs, and three high doors, corresponding with the French windows. The room resembled a salon in some foreign hotel; no flowers, photographs or books were to be seen, much less a cat or dog, a rumpled newspaper, or scrap of work; but there was a curious unfamiliar odour, a mysterious combination of musk and coffee. To judge by their bungalow and the smart victoria, her parents were in easy circumstances—the standard of wealth in the East presumably differed from that in the West; poverty in England meant luxury in Manora. It was true that her father's clothes were shabby, but she was aware that some elderly men despised their personal appearance; and had not her father administered a shock? A sharp unexpected disappointment? Angrily she drove away the fact, but like an irritating insect, it returned with determined persistence.
He was undoubtedly a gentleman, his features were finely cut, his voice and manner unimpeachable, but there was a hidden tragedy in those weary eyes and timid deprecating air. What was the experience which had crushed all the light out of his face? and why did he look as if he abode day and night with the giant Despair? Was his haggard expression merely the result of ill-health, or, in consequence, of the doom of exile? Then her thoughts sprang back to that central figure—her mother. Oh, when would she come? What was detaining her?
Presently Verona became aware of a stealthy hustling and scuffling outside one of the curtained doors; her relations were evidently in her immediate vicinity. There was a sound of half-suppressed squeaks, of giggling and tittering, then a voice, in a well-known accent, cried:
"Oh, goody me! Pussy, Pussy, come along!"
Instantly the reply in breathless jerks, like a double knock, "No! no! no! you go!—you go!"
And now the drapery over another entrance vibrated—was briskly whisked aside, and someone came into the room. Verona was so agitated she could hardly rise, as she saw approaching a little elderly woman, with a frizzy fringe, eager black eyes, and a girlish figure. She noticed that she wore a buff-coloured cotton dress with dark spots and a wide scarlet necktie; and even by the diminishing light the girl discerned that the stranger was dark; oh, much darker than Prince Tossati—or even Madame de Godez!
"Well, Verona, child," she began in a high staccato key as she advanced and took her hand, "so you have come! My goodness, how tall you are! You must stoop for me to kiss you."
Verona paused for a moment, irresolute, wondering who this person might be? but bent her head as requested, in order to receive a salute.
"My! you are a great big girl," continued the little woman; "but tall girls are the fashion—so the papers say!"
As she noticed that Verona's eyes were still gazing beyond her, and fixed intently on the door, she cried: