He looked. "It's beautiful."
She turned about before him. "I do choose well sometimes, don't I?"
"You do everything well, my dear." In his tone now was a quaint and curious humility which always touched her when she discerned it—something of utter fondness and dependance—and she smoothed his iron-grey hair, one of her characteristic endearments, as she kissed him good night.
Upstairs Echo opened the door of her room softly. It was hung in blue—that shade which one sees in a Gainsborough ribbon, a Romney sash or a Reynolds sky—and its furniture was of simple white, with large pink dahlias trailing over the chintz window-curtains and chair-cushions. In the dim night-light the triple mirror of the dresser reflected the carven four-post bed, in one of whose pillows Nancy's dark head was already buried.
"Is that you, Echo?"
"Yes, it's I. Were you asleep already?"
"Almost," yawned Nancy. "I shall be in two shakes of a lamb's tail. Has Chilly come home yet?"
"No, not yet."
"Do you think he's really at the club, Echo?"
"Of course I do."