“Not bad-looking,” was her father’s verdict. After gazing at it for a long time, studying the dress and details, he put both letter and photo into his breast coat pocket, and went off to his bath.
No need to do anything in a hurry; letter-writing was the mischief, and dangerous. He would take his time,—and he did. Several anxious epistles from Les Plans remained unnoticed, and hence his daughter’s despair. It was evident that there was nothing before her, but the prospect of a dull life in an English village, and she decided to make the best of circumstances.
Her father, meanwhile, had resolved to motor to Lucerne for his ‘after cure,’ but not commit himself in any way. He would first look round cautiously, and see how the land lay.
Hugo Blagdon in his magnificent car arrived early in September, and put up at the National. After an excellent lunch—concluded with coffee and liqueur—he strolled forth on the Quai, and stared frowningly on the lovely scene; the mountains and hills of all shades of blue, the lake gay with traffic; finally he went into the Casino gardens and bestowed his heavy form upon a seat. The band was playing, and the place was crowded. He debated with himself the question of a bock—yes or no—the verdict was ‘no’: he had recently lost ten pounds in weight and must keep himself down. Bye and by, among the crowd, he was glad to recognise a racing acquaintance, and signalled to him to join him at his little table.
As they sat, discussing jockeys, weights, and other matters, the man said:
“This is a great season, I have never seen the place so full, nor so many pretty frocks, and faces. Hullo—look there!”
Two ladies were crossing the gardens, both tall and both wearing summer hats, and white gowns; their air and good looks distinguished them from the crowd.
For a moment Blagdon stared with stolid incredulity, then he hastily put down his cigar, for he had recognised Letty! A beautiful, self-possessed Letty, with an air of fragile grace, who, although laden with several parcels, carried herself like a queen; the girl, of bigger build, with clouds of hair and marvellous colouring, was his correspondent Cara,—she looked every day of twenty!
He was actually gazing at his own wife and daughter—so were others; the pair had been accosted by friends, and stopped to talk, and this afforded the spectators an opportunity to admire.
“By Jove, Englishwomen are hard to beat! I bet those two are English,” said his companion. “The elder is the best looking—a handsome woman. The young one seems full of go, and what teeth and colouring! But she hasn’t her sister’s figure.”