“With pleasure,” he answered, “if I can get away from a stupid dinner in time.”
She let him go reluctantly. Afterwards she passed into her own room, and stood looking at herself in the pier glass. Artists and the society papers called her the most beautiful woman in England; fashion had placed her upon such a pinnacle that men counted it a distinction to be seen speaking to her. She dealt out her smiles and favors like Royalty itself; she had never once known a rebuff. This afternoon she felt that she had received one. Had she been too cold or too forward? Perhaps she had underestimated the man himself. She rang for her maid.
“Celeste,” she said, “I shall wear my new Paquin gown tonight at the opera, and my pearls.”
“Very good, your ladyship.”
“And I am going to lie down for an hour or two now. Don’t let me be disturbed. I want to look my best tonight. You understand?”
“Perfectly, your ladyship.”
The Marchioness rested, but she did not sleep. She was thinking of Wingrave!
It was not Lady Ruth, but her husband, who was waiting to see Wingrave on his return. Aynesworth was talking to him, but at once withdrew. Wingrave nodded with slightly upraised eyebrows. He never shook hands with Barrington.
“You wanted to see me?” he inquired, carelessly turning over a little pile of letters.
Barrington was ill at ease. He hated himself and he hated his errand.