"Thank you; Mrs. Carrington, I suppose?" he says, with some faint hesitation, his eyes travelling over my dreadfully youthful form, that looks even more than usually childish to night in its clothing of white cashmere and blue ribbons.
"Yes," I return, laughing and blushing. "Marmaduke should have been here to give us a formal introduction to each other, though indeed it is hardly necessary: I seem to know you quite well from all I have heard about you."
A slight rustling near the fire, a faint pause, and then Bebe comes forward.
"How d'ye do, Lord Chandos?" she says. "I hope you have not quite forgotten me."
She holds out her hand and for an instant her eyes look fairly into his—only for an instant.
She is dressed in some filmy black gown, that clings close to her, and has nothing to relieve its gloom save one spot of blood-red color that rests upon her bosom. Her arms shine bare and white to the elbow; in her hair is another fleck of the blood-red ribbon. Is it the flickering uncertain light or my own fancy that makes her face appear so pale?
Her eyes gleam large and dark, and the curious little black mole lying so close to her ear looks blacker than usual in contrast to her white cheek. But her tone rings gay and steady as ever. A smile quivers round her lips.
I am puzzled, I scarcely know why. I glance at Lord Chandos, and—surely the firelight to-night is playing fantastic tricks—his face appears flushed and anxious, I draw conclusions, but cannot make them satisfactory.
"I had no idea I should meet you here," he says, in a low tone that is studiously polite.
Bebe laughs musically.