Mrs. Henry Goldsmith's æsthetic instincts had had full play in the elaborate carelessness of the ensemble, and the result was a triumph, a medley of Persian luxury and Parisian grace, a dream of somniferous couches and armchairs, rich tapestry, vases, fans, engravings, books, bronzes, tiles, plaques, and flowers. Mr. Henry Goldsmith was himself a connoisseur in the arts, his own and his father's fortunes having been built up in the curio and antique business, though to old Aaron Goldsmith appreciation had meant strictly pricing, despite his genius for detecting false Correggios and sham Louis Quatorze cabinets.
'Do you suffer from headaches?' inquired Raphael solicitously.
'A little. The doctor says I studied too much and worked too hard when a little girl. Such is the punishment of perseverance. Life isn't like the copy-books.'
'Oh, but I wonder your parents let you over-exert yourself.'
A melancholy smile played about the mobile lips. 'I brought myself up,' she said. 'You look puzzled. Oh, I know! Confess you think I'm Miss Goldsmith!'
'Why—are—you not?' he stammered.
'No, my name is Ansell—Esther Ansell.'
'Pardon me. I am so bad at remembering names in introductions. But I've just come back from Oxford, and it's the first time I've been to this house, and seeing you here without a cavalier when we arrived, I thought you lived here.'
'You thought rightly; I do live here.' She laughed gently at his changing expression.
'I wonder Sidney never mentioned you to me,' he said.