"I am afraid," she said, "that it would be hopeless. Mother is an absolute wreck, and I saw Lord Arranmore go into the library just now with that terrible white look under his eyes. I saw it once before. Ugh!"
"After all," he said, "it only means that we shall be honest.
Cheerfulness to-night could only be forced."
She laughed softly into his eyes.
"How correct!" she murmured. "You are improving fast."
He turned and looked at her, slim and graceful in her white muslin gown, her fair hair brushed back from her forehead with a slight wave, but drooping low over her ears, a delicate setting for her piquant face. The dark brown eyes, narrowing a little towards the lids, met his with frank kindliness, her mouth quivered a little as though with the desire to break away into a laugh. The slight duskiness of her cheeks—she had lived for three years in Italy and never worn a veil—pleased him better than the insipidity of pink and white, and the absence of jewelry—she wore neither bracelet nor rings gave her an added touch of distinction, which restless youth finds something so much harder to wear than sedate middle age. The admiration grew in his eyes. She was charming.
The lips broke away at last.
"After all," she murmured, "I think that I shall enjoy myself this evening. You are looking all sorts of nice things at me."
"My eyes," he answered, "are more daring than my lips."
"And you call yourself a lawyer?"
"Is that a challenge? Well, I was thinking that you looked charming."