At my right hand sits Sir James, a tall, distinguished-looking man, with hair of iron-gray and deep-set eyes. He is grave and remarkably silent—such an utter contrast to his laughter-loving wife, of whom he never appears to take the smallest notice. To me it is a matter of amazement how he can so systematically ignore her, as he seldom addresses to her a word or lets his eyes rest upon her for any length of time.
But for Marmaduke's assertion that they adore each other I would be inclined to think them at daggers drawn, or at least indifferent; and it is only now and then when she speaks to him, and I see his eyes light up and smile and soften, that I can accept the gentler idea.
Not to his wife alone, however, is he reserved; all the rest of the world he treats in a similar manner, and I come to the conclusion he abhors talking, and is a man with no settled taste or pursuits. Hearing, indeed, that his one passion is hunting, I broach the subject cautiously, and, feeling certain of making a score, express myself desirous of being informed as to the express nature of the "bull-finch."
"Explanations always fall short," is his reply. "Some day when we are out I will show you one. That will be best."
So my ignorance remains unenlightened, and as he calmly returns to his dinner, I do the same, and abandon all hopes of hearing him converse.
Dora is doing the amiable to Sir George Ashurst. Anything so simple or innocent as Dora in her white dress and coral ribbons could hardly be conceived. I am admiring her myself with all my heart, and wondering how it is she does it; and I fancy Sir Mark Gore is doing the same. Once, as she raises the childish questioning blue eyes to her companion's face, and murmurs some pretty speech in her soft treble, I see Sir Mark smile openly. It is only a momentary merriment, however, as directly afterwards he turns to me, suave and charming as ever.
"How becoming white is to your sister!" he says. "It suits her expression so wonderfully. I don't know how it is, but the word ingenue always comes to me when I look at her."
"She is very pretty," I return, coldly. I have not yet quite decided on the nature of that smile.
"You do her an injustice. Surely she is more than 'pretty'—a word that means so little in these degenerate days. If I were an artist I should like to paint her as 'Moonlight,' with a bunch of lilies in her hands, and just that dress she is now wearing—without the ribbons—and a little stream running at her feet. I have seldom seen so sweet an expression. One could hardly fancy an unkind word coming from those lips, or a hidden motive in her heart."
I think of our "Moonlight's" designs upon Marmaduke and the man who is now so loud in her praise. I think of the many and energetic fracas between her and Billy, and am silent. I don't know why, but I am positive Sir Mark is amused. I color and look up.