“Too difficult of access,” Claire Blackwood said, “but, otherwise all right.”
Mrs Blackwood was a widow, young, attractive, and of a psychic turn of mind. Not enough of an occultist to make her a bore, but possessing quick and sure intuitions and claiming some slight clairvoyant powers. She dabbled in water colors, and did an occasional oil. She was long-limbed, with long fingers and long feet, and usually had a long scarf of some gauzy texture trailing about her. Of an evening or even on a dressy afternoon, she had a long panel or sash-end hanging below her short skirt, and which was frequently trodden on by blundering, inattentive feet.
Good-looking, of course, Claire Blackwood was,—she took care to be that,—but her utmost care could not make her beautiful,—much to her own chagrin. Her scarlet lips were too thin, and the angle of her jaw too hard. Yet she was handsome, and by virtue of her personality and her implicit belief in her own importance, she was the leader socially, notwithstanding the fact that the colony disclaimed any society element in its life.
“Tell us about the Headland House people, Claire. You’ve called, haven’t you?”
This from Ted Landon, who by reason of his sheer impudence was forgiven any unconventionality. No other man at the Harbor would have dreamed of addressing Mrs Blackwood by her first name.
“Yes; I’ve called. They’re delightful people.” The words said more than the tone.
“With reservations?” asked North.
“Oh, in a way. They’re quite all right,—it’s only that they’re not picture mad,—as we all are.”
“Ignorant?”
“Oh, no,—not that. Well, I’ll sketch them for you. Mr Varian is a Wall Street man,——”