Her gown, black with dashes of white, suggested the last and finest flight of fashion; her manner, the latest, most charming importation; her very movement, a consciousness of the keen eye of the world.
While he pondered whether these differences did not merely enhance the beauty of her shadowed eyes, her black and white glimmered through the door of the car. Holden waved his hand from the step and followed her.
Thair wandered down the platform toward where the groom held his uneasy mount.
“That’s a match,” he muttered. “She’ll take him. That’s what she means. She’s wise. Great woman! If a man were fool enough—h’m, h’m!” He nodded to the groom.
Holden, having established his bags in a seat near the door, took the chair next Florence.
She was merry, full of twisted phrases, making him laugh in spite of his impatience.
“I believe,” he told her, half in earnest, “it’s because you’ve fetched that engagement you’re in such spirits.”
“Oh, do you think me a match-maker?” she laughed.
“Well, I wish you’d be one for yourself,” he said bluntly.