Her lips were not more heavily rouged than he had previously seen them, and the powder on her face was, on the whole, less conspicuous than that which lay in rather ineffectual patches on the red splotches of sunburn on Diana Grierson-Amberly’s delicate, mottled skin.
But Miss Grierson-Amberly sat erect on her chair, and her clear blue eyes looked out politely and interestedly from the smooth vacuity of her young face, and her voice was very low, and distinct, and well-bred.
Perhaps Rose Aviolet’s voice——?
It certainly rang out above any other voice in the room.
“I always think it’s an awfully difficult name to pronounce if you’ve only seen it written,” came over audibly from Rose. “Someone in Colombo once read out a letter from me, and she said the signature as if it was Rosa-Violet!”
Diana Grierson-Amberly smiled, looking at Sir Thomas. He remained entirely grave, and Lucian surmised that he saw no cause to be anything but pained at the idea that people should exist who did not know how his name should be pronounced. Moreover, the personal note, never long absent from Rose’s conversation, had sounded oddly out of place.
The others, collectively, were saying:
“There was certainly a touch of frost the other night—not a doubt of it.”
And: “You must take a cutting next time you’re in the garden.”
And from Sir Thomas: “What do you think of the chances of this bye-election?”