Lord Artingale and his artist friend arrived early, Magnus to be button-holed and taken aside to see his picture hung with a gaslight and reflector before it, to show it to the best advantage; and yet he was not grateful, for when he returned to Harry Artingale he growled, as the latter, who was very light-hearted and happy, said, “like a sore tom”—cat, of course, understood.
Perry-Morton was standing with his blue china halo behind his head, and with a fleshly poetic look in his eye; and his sisters were each posed before a big Benares brown dish, etherealising her lambent curls and pallid face into virgin and martyr beauty, when the butler announced the Mallows, the girls looking very natural and charming, and Frank and Cyril creating quite a sensation with their sunburnt, swarthy faces and rugged bearing.
“Oh, Claudine,” whispered Faustine, “look at Julia,” and her sister uttered a tragic. “Ah!” as she advanced with her brother to receive the new arrivals.
Certainly Julia looked deadly pale, for as she descended from the carriage she had caught sight of a great burly fellow bearing a lantern, which he ostentatiously held low, so that her little pale blue satin rosetted shoes should not go astray from the carpeted path, and the sight of his dark eyes had sent the blood rushing to her heart. But this pallor rather added to than took from her beauty, as, simply dressed in the palest of pale blue satin, and her throat and arms wreathed with lustrous pearls, she seemed to stand alone amidst the throng of strangely grotesque costumes by which she was surrounded.
The sisters changed their key instanter upon seeing the effect produced upon their brother, whose eyes half closed once more as he greeted his guests. In fact, he treated the Rector with such deference, that for a moment it seemed as if he were going to sink upon his knees, and in true patriarchal style ask for his blessing.
But he did not, neither did he raise Julia’s hand to his lips. He merely beamed upon her rapturously, led her to a seat after the congratulations of his sisters had had due course, and then, as a kind of hum went through the rooms, proceeded to hover over his choice.
“A melody in heaven’s own azure,” whispered Perry-Morton. “Julia, your costume is perfection.”
The pallor on poor Julia’s cheeks had been giving place to a vivid blush, but her host’s words and manner once more drove the blood to her heart, and she sank back upon the lounge, glad to use her fan, for she thoroughly realised that she was looked upon by all present as the future mistress of the place.
“Magnus, my dear boy,” whispered Artingale, “have you any charity in your nature?”
“Heaps. Why?”