Had the light been a little stronger, he would have noted the quiet smile which played about Lady Isabelle's face, though her silence was, in itself, suggestive of the fact that she did not believe him.
"I probably shan't stay more than a few days, long enough to do the proper thing, you know."
"Have you seen your friend?"
"Miss Fitzgerald? On my word, I haven't laid eyes on her. The fact is, I've quite decided to follow your advice. You must be my guardian angel."
Her Ladyship looked dubious at this, though the rôle of guardian angel to an attractive young man has ever been dear to the feminine heart. However that may be, her ultimate decision was perforce relegated to another interview, by the appearance before them of the subject of their conversation—Miss Belle Fitzgerald.
This much discussed lady was dressed in the apparent simplicity which tells of art. Her costume, the very finest of white muslins, suggested the lithe movements of the body it encased, with every motion she made, and her simple bodice was of the fashion of thirty years ago, a fashion which always inspired wonder that the clothes stayed on, and awe at the ingenuity with which that miracle must have been accomplished. A broad frill of the same material, caught with a knot of white ribbon at her breast, framed her dazzling throat and neck, and a yellow sash, whose end nearly touched the floor, encircled her waist; a sash whose colour just matched the tint of that glorious hair, which, astonishing to relate, hung loose down her back, and was surmounted by a very tiny white bow, which was evidently a concession to the demands of conventionality, as it could have been of no possible use in retaining her tresses. That Miss Fitzgerald was able not only to adopt this style, but to carry it off with unqualified success, and the approval of all unprejudiced observers, was its own justification.
"I always wear my hair like this in the country," she had said at lunch. "It is so much easier, and I'm really not old enough to paste it over my forehead and go in for a bun behind"—this with a glance at Lady Isabelle, which caused the Dowager Marchioness to exclaim, quite audibly, that it was scandalous for that young person—she was sure she had forgotten her name—to wear her hair as if she wasn't yet eighteen. Lady Isabelle, it may be remarked, could lay no claim to anything under twenty.
But certainly in this case, the end justified the deed, and Miss Fitzgerald, rejuvenated, was one of the most simple, blithesome and gay young maidens that the sun shone on.
Possibly this was the reason that she never saw or comprehended the meaning of Lady Isabelle's uplifted eyebrows and steely glare, as she drew up before the couple and violated the first rule of fair and open warfare by interrupting their tête-à-tête.
"Well, Jimsy," she said, using a form of address that the rack would never have wrung from his companion, "How are you? Feeling fit?"