At the very hour that Lyveden walked heavily down the wet lanes on his way to the station, Valerie French, who was to dine early and go to the play, was sitting before her dressing-table in an apricot kimono.
The evening sun stared into her bedroom mercilessly and found no fault in it. It was a broad low room, full of soft colours and the warm glow of highly polished wood. Walls, curtains, and carpet were all of powder-blue; an old rose fabric covered what seats there were; an apple-green coverlet filled up the symphony. That taper elegance which modern craftsmanship can give mahogany was most apparent, lending the usual suite unusual comeliness. A great pier-glass flashed in a corner, upon a little table beside a deep chair a bowl of roses sweetened the London air, above the well-found bed dangled an ivory switch.
If the chamber was fair, so was my lady.
Looking upon her beauty, as she sat at the glass, Valerie French might have felt very proud. But, if we pry into her mind, it will be seen that her thoughts were otherwise occupied. Indeed, the fixing of her hair—usually so simple a matter—was making her knit her brow. The fact that the soft dark tresses had been washed that morning made them unruly. In vain the pointed fingers strove to secure and order them to their mistress's liking….
At length, with a sigh, she brought her hands to her lap.
Then she made a mouth at the reflection of her labours.
"I look like his Sealyham," she said.
* * * * *
It was on Monday morning that Lord Pomfret suggested to Lyveden the propriety of putting a pound each way on Slip Along.
"I don't suppose the swine's any good," said his lordship moodily. "But he'll probably start at twenty, so I may as well have a dart. I forget who told me about him."