Mrs. Aviolet did not look more than four or five and twenty, built on a large scale, and with something of the slouching awkwardness of an overgrown schoolgirl. Her hair, which was untidy, was a very light brown in front and yellow where it was turned up at the back, and her eyes, big and brown, had beautifully upturned black lashes. Deep dimples showed at the corners of her pretty mouth, and her teeth were white and even. Her worst point might have been her skin, but it was glaringly evident, even to the doctor’s masculine perceptions, that she made lavish and unskilful use of cosmetics.
They looked, at Squires, as much out of place as did her clothes—frilled where Lady Aviolet’s were plain, papery, in spite of their blackness, where the other’s were heavy and substantial.
She gave Dr. Lucian a large and very capable-looking white hand, heavily laden with rings.
“How d’you do? This is my little boy—he’s got a chill.”
The little boy sitting up in bed was very like her, with the same brown eyes, fair hair, and deep dimples, but with a look of fragility. There was nothing in his appearance to recall any of the Aviolets. He was not shy, but eager to talk and to answer questions.
“We hope to get some colour into his face presently,” Lady Aviolet observed. “You know what these Eastern children are.”
She looked at the little boy with dissatisfaction.
“He’s quite healthy,” said Mrs. Aviolet shortly.
She began to give an account of his health, speaking rather defiantly.
“Yes. Yes. I’ll just take his temperature. Put this under your tongue and don’t talk until I take it away again.”