"What a charming gown!" said Agatha, looking at her friend.
Certainly the gown was not more charming than its wearer. Miss Firs-Robinson was looking her very best to-night—small, fairy-like, refined, in spite of her parentage, which, indeed, was not all it might have been. Her grandfather had been a store boy in America, had got on, and become the head of a store himself.
Anyway, Miss Firs-Robinson was as delicately formed as though the blood of all the Howards had run through her veins. A little thing—small—vivacious. Her father, the moment he felt himself above the whims of Fortune's vilest efforts, came to England and died.
That was five years ago. Elfrida, who had been sent home at an early age for educational purposes, and who remembered but slightly her American experiences, had lived all these years with her father's sister, the elder Miss Firs-Robinson. She was a most estimable woman, and full of prejudices.
Elfrida was as lovely as the dawning day. Her pretty fair hair covered in tiny curls a head as patrician in shape as though its owner had been the daughter of a hundred earls. And in this head to-night some diamond stars were glittering, sparkling gaily as its owner moved and spoke. Her mouth was small, but not too small. And her nose was not Greek. It was pretty and very lovable, for all that. Her eyes were blue, and so easy to read, said the tyro; so difficult, said the expert.
"If you hadn't come," said Miss Firs-Robinson, "there would have been murder presently. Dr.—-"
Agatha's face changed and whitened; she made an impulsive movement.
"Dr. Dillwyn has been wandering round aimlessly for the last hour, seeking whom he may devour, I suppose. Certainly he has not been seeking a partner. Now you have come—-"
"Well? Now I have come?" Agatha repeated her words. "How can you be so stupid!" said she.
"Stupid! Stupid! I like that. Well I have news for you. Who do you think is—-"