Miss Janney had quietly and cleverly appropriated Lawrence Berkely and was already on her way to the conservatory. Jack Perot, who painted the portraits of fashionable ladies, had taken the Baroness to the Long Room, where the English pictures were hung. Camilla, after a few polite comments on the dignity of the house, sat a little aside in silence. Cortland Bent, after a glance toward the door through which Miss Janney had vanished, dropped into the vacant chair beside her.
"I'm so glad to see you," she said genuinely. "You know the magnificence is rather bewildering." She paused and lowered her voice. "It seems as if I hadn't seen you for ages."
"Yes," he murmured. "I'm expecting wings any day now. I'm almost too good to be true."
"You're an angel," she smiled. "I want you to be good, and I'm sure I want you to be true. And yet"—she paused—"this seems the only case in the world where to be true is to be bad."
"You can't make the sun stop shining."
"I don't think I want it to stop shining altogether. You see, I'm selfish. I want it under a cloud, that's all."
There was a pause—significant to them both.
"I am trying, Camilla. I am doing my best. You appreciate that?"
"Yes, but it shouldn't be so hard. I don't think it would be hard for me in your place!"
His eyes questioned.