“Imagine,” she said—“imagine a man who travels about with Egyptian gods in his portmanteau instead of clothes! Well, Rupert, I have sacrificed my best gloves on the altar of your gods,” and she held up her hand and showed the kid split right across.
“I’ll give you another pair,” he ejaculated, still covered with confusion, as they passed together into the dining-room where his supper was waiting.
“Dear me,” said Edith, “this unwonted exercise has made me very hot,” and she threw off first her long cloak, and then her hat, and stood before him in the lamplight.
Oh, she was beautiful, beautiful! or so thought this dweller in deserts, whose heart and mind were soft as wax with joy and thankfulness, and who for years had scarcely spoken to English ladies.
Certainly the promise of Edith’s youth had been fulfilled. The perfect shape, so light and graceful, and yet so tall, the waving hair of rich gold that gleamed like a crown upon her white brow, the large, deep blue eyes, the fine-cut features, redeemed from pride by the rounded cheeks and chin; the gliding, measured movements; all these graces remarkable enough separately, when considered as a whole, made of Edith a most attractive and gracious, if not an absolutely lovely woman. Then and there her charm went home to him; although as yet he did not know it, then and there Rupert fell in love with her, he who had never thought of any woman in such a sense since boyhood, and what is more, his transparent eyes told her the story.
For a few seconds they stood looking at each other; then she said:
“Would you like to speak to your mother for a few minutes while the cook sends up the soup? Oh, you must eat it, or she will be so disappointed, and so shall I, for we have been making it all the afternoon.”
So he went. As the door closed behind him Edith sank into a chair like a person who is suddenly relieved from some mental strain, and her face became very thoughtful.
“That is over,” she said to herself, “and far better than I expected. He does not care for anybody, I am sure, and—the question is—do I like him? I don’t think so, although he is handsome in his way, and a man. There is still a wall between us as in childhood—we are different. No, I don’t think that I care for him,” and she shivered a little. “Also there is that wretched Dick to be considered now as always. Oh; Dick, Dick! if I don’t take this chance it is the third I shall have thrown away for you. You worthless Dick, who are yet the only man who does not make me shiver. But I am not sure. He is good; he is distinguished; he will almost certainly be Lord Devene, and beggars can’t be choosers. Well, there is plenty of time to think, and meanwhile I will try to make him thoroughly in love with me before he meets other women.”
Then the door opened, and the maid came in with the soup.