There came a fresh arrival into the room, and paused a while in the open doorway. This gentleman was very large, with wide shoulders under a coat of maroon velvet, and a strong, handsome face. Under heavy lids his eyes fell on Prudence and rested there.
“Why, Fanshawe! I had thought you were out of town. Someone told me you had gone down to Wych End.” Mr Troubridge, standing nearby, stepped closer to Sir Anthony, and offered his snuff-box. “What are you looking at? Oh, my Lady Lowestoft’s protégé! By name Merriot, and seemingly a pleasant youth. That face should captivate the ladies.”
“It should,” Sir Anthony replied. “Jollyot wastes no time, I see.”
Mr Troubridge laughed. It was after all, no concern of his. “Oh, trust Jollyot! By the way, young Apollo has a prodigious fine sister. Have you seen her? One of your fair beauties. She’s above stairs in the withdrawing room.”
“I’ve been presented.” Still Sir Anthony’s eyes dwelt on the unconscious Prudence. “Up from the country, are they? Now, neither has the look of it. Our young gentleman yonder” — very slightly he indicated Prudence with a movement of his quizzing-glass — “has all the air of a town beau.”
“Very modish, to be sure. He’ll have need of keen town wits if he plays with Jollyot.” Mr Troubridge smiled a little, and looked towards the picquet table.
Prudence sat sideways at it, an arm laid along it, and one shapely leg stretched out before her. She wore a coat of dull gold brocade, with the skirts very full and stiffly whaleboned, and the great cuffs turned back to the elbow. There was much foaming lace at throat and wrists, and a jewelled buckle was placed above the black riband that confined her powdered locks in the nape of her neck. She was looking at the cards held in one hand, her face expressionless. There was a patch set at the corner of the firm mouth, and one high up on the cheek-bone. Her other hand, with a glowing ring on it, lay lightly on the arm of her chair. As though conscious of the gaze upon her, she looked up suddenly, straight at Sir Anthony. A tinge of colour rose in her cheeks; involuntarily she smiled.
“Oh, do you know him?” asked Troubridge, surprised.
“We were introduced above stairs,” Sir Anthony answered, with a fine disregard for the truth, and went across the room to Prudence’s side. “Well met, my dear boy.” His hand pressed on Prudence’s shoulder to prevent her rising. “No, do not permit me to interrupt.”
At the sound of that lazy, pleasant voice a faint frown crossed Sir Francis’ face. He acknowledged Sir Anthony’s greeting only by a curt nod, and declared a point of five.