Poppy began to arrange her hair at the mantel-mirror, pulling out her little side-combs, running them through strands of hair, then plunging them in deeper, so that great waves leaned out on either side of her face and delicate fronds fell veil-wise just over her eyes. Then she took a bunch of green leaves and fastened them under her throat with a big, old malachite brooch she had.
"Well, put some colour on your cheeks, or something," said Sophie discontentedly.
Poppy flew into one of the fierce little rages that sometimes seized her. "I will not, Sophie! Why on earth should you suppose that because you have a violent colour no one admires pale women? Do not make the mistake of thinking that everyone adores your type because you do!"
Sophie, utterly taken aback, was about to make a tart rejoinder, when there came a light tap with a crop on the front door.
"Anyone at home?"
Sophie flew to her room to complete her toilette, leaving Poppy to swallow her rage and open the door. A big, grey-eyed man, with a kind smile, was standing in the verandah. He was in riding-clothes and carried a crop in his hand.
"Come in," said Poppy, without enthusiasm; adding: "Miss Cornell will not be long."
"Are you Miss Chard?" said he pleasantly, and came in.
He looked round in a friendly, boyish way that rather charmed her.
"By Jove! How pretty you've made this place look! It's quite different."