“Amelia——” she began. “Oh, I beg your pardon! I did not know that you had visitors.”
“It is only Mr Trenchard, aunt,” said Amelia quickly, and George placed a chair for Madame de Château-Foix, with whose entrance a slight constraint appeared to have fallen upon the company. Sir William endeavoured to dissipate this by informing his sister-in-law of the object of Trenchard’s visit.
“Indeed!” said the Marquise, elevating her beautifully pencilled eyebrows, and looking at Trenchard where he stood by Lucienne. “Monsieur is really too kind.”
“But Lucy,” pursued Sir William, unheeding, “don’t want to wear violets.”
“Indeed, I should hope not!” exclaimed Madame de Château-Foix, with so much of meaning in her voice that Sir William was suddenly stricken silent.
“Perhaps, Madame,” said Trenchard with that boldness which cloaks timidity, “you would give us your assistance in the choice of suitable flowers.”
“I am afraid, Monsieur,” returned the elder lady with growing coldness, “that I cannot be of service in the matter. I do not consider it good taste to wear flowers of any description while in mourning—even in half-mourning—for a near relative.”
Lucienne looked down, and no one said anything.
“For myself,” pursued the Marquise, evidently gratified with the effect which she was producing, “I have never worn them since the death of my husband—except at my son’s request, on the occasion of his annual banquet to his tenants. And even then,” she added with increased dignity, “the flowers were not real.”
“Dear me, what were they, then?” enquired Sir William, impressed.