She certainly looked at those two—but then so did everybody. She never said a word.
Lady Annabel has a wonderfully good memory both for names and for faces. (“I have heard it called a royal attribute,” she sometimes says smilingly.)
She remembers to inquire after sick relatives and she can always make some happily turned little reference to “the last time that I met you, on that very hot day at the station”—which makes one feel that the meeting in question left an indelible impression on her mind and was of real importance to her. It is all very pleasant and gratifying.
On the night of the party she told me that she thought it was all going most successfully and that the theatricals had been delightful. “Such a charming way of meeting one’s neighbors all together,” she said, looking around the room through her tortoise-shell lorgnette.
She was wearing a blue gown that was all over sequins and shimmered as she moved, and although Lady Annabel is a small woman, and very thin and spare, she looked majestic and altogether reminded me of Queen Elizabeth.
“I think I see a face that is strange to me,” she murmured, drawing her brows together in a rather puzzled way, and one knew that this was one of Lady Annabel’s very harmless little affectations, since there are of necessity a good many faces that are strange to her, even in Cross Loman.
I followed the direction of the lorgnette and saw, as I had somehow expected, that she was looking at Harter.
“That is Mr. Harter.”
“Oh,” said Lady Annabel.
She looked hard at him and then she said, “Oh,” again—but that was all.