"I wish you could see her," Geoffrey said tenderly, "she looks lovely. Her eyes are so blue, her skin is like the sunny side of a peach."
"And your tongue is like that of a goose," Vera laughed. "Never mind, Uncle Ralph. Never mind. If you can't have the inestimable advantage of gazing on my perfect beauty, you shall have the privilege of sitting by me at dinner."
Geoffrey pleaded with comic despair, but Vera was obdurate. As the bell clanged again, she laid a hand light as thistledown on Ralph's arm. She was brighter and more gay than usual this evening and Marion played up to her, as she always did.
The elders were silent. Perhaps the white flowers on the table checked them. They were so suggestive of the wreaths on a coffin.
When once the cloth was drawn in the good old-fashioned way, and the decanters and lamps and glasses stood mirrored in the shining dark mahogany, the resemblance was more marked than ever. The long strip of white damask, whereon lamps and flowers and decanters rested, might have been a winding sheet. Rupert Ravenspur protested moodily.
"It's dreadful in a house like this," he said. "Who did it?"
"I am the culprit, dearest," Vera admitted prettily. "Marion did all in her power to prevent me, but I would have my own foolish way. If you will forgive me I will promise that it shall not occur again."
Rupert Ravenspur smiled. It was only when he was looking at Vera that the tender relaxation came over his stern old face. Then his eyes fixed on the flowers and they seemed to draw him forward.
"You are forgiven," he said. "Marion was right, as she always is. What should we do without your cheerfulness and good advice? Upon my word I feel as if those flowers were drawing all the reason out of me."
Nobody replied. It was a strange and curious thing that everybody seemed to be regarding the waxen blossoms in the same dull, sleepy, fascinating way. All eyes were turned upon them as eyes are turned upon some thrilling, repulsive performance. The silence was growing oppressive and painful.