About thirty drove from the well-known rendezvous of the Coaching Club along the pretty drive which skirts the Serpentine and ends with the bridge that divides the Park from Kensington Gardens; and though some of the drivers adhered to the Club uniform—blue, with gilt buttons—many appeared in the perfection of morning costume; and as team after team went by, chestnut, white, or grey, with satin-like skins, murmurs of applause, rising at times to a cheer, greeted the proprietors.
The costumes of the ladies who occupied the lofty seats were as perfect as, in many instances, was their beauty; and no other capital in Europe could have presented such a spectacle as Trevor Chute saw then, when the summer sun was at its height in the heavens, gilding the trees with brilliant light, and showing Hyde Park in all its glory.
The leading drag was the one which fascinated him, and all the other twenty-nine went clattering past like same phantasmagoria, or a spectacle one might seem to behold in a dream.
Several ladies were on the drag, including the owner's somewhat passé sister, the Hon. Evelyn Desmond; but Chute saw only two—Clare and Violet Collingwood—or one, rather, the elder, who riveted all his attention.
Both girls were remarkable for their beauty even then, when every second female face seemed fair to look upon; but the contrast was strong in the opposite styles of their loveliness, for Clare was a brilliant brunette, while Violet was even more brilliant as a blonde; and as the drag swept past, Trevor Chute had only time to remark the perfect taste of Clare's costume or habit, that her back hair was a marvel of curious plaiting, and that she was laughingly and hastily thrusting into her silver-mounted Marguerite pouch a note that Desmond had handed to her, almost surreptitiously it seemed; and then, amid the crowd and haze, she passed away from his sight, as completely as she had done four years before, when, by the force of circumstances—a fate over which he had no control—they had been rent asunder, when their engagement was declared null, and they were informed that thenceforward their paths in life must be far apart.
'Clare Collingwood is the same girl as ever, Trevor,' said Jerry Vane, breaking a silence of some minutes. 'You saw with what imperial indifference she was receiving the admiration of all who passed, and the attention of those who were about her.'
'Is she much changed, Jerry, since—since I left England?' Trevor asked.
'Oh, no,' replied the other, cynically; 'she and her sisters—Violet, at least—have gone, and are still going, over the difficult ways of life pleasantly, gracefully, and easily, as all in their "set" usually do. In her fresh widow's weeds Ida Beverley could not be here to-day, of course.'
'I have an express and most melancholy mission to her on the morrow,' said Captain Chute. 'But why is Collingwood père not with his daughters on this occasion?'
'Though girls that any man might be proud of escorting in any capacity, the old beau, with his dyed hair and curled whispers, is never seen with them, nor has been since their mother's death. Though sixty, if he is a day, he prefers to act the rôle of a young fellow on his preferment, and doesn't like to have these young women—one of them a widow, too—calling him "papa." He knows instinctively—nay, he has overheard—that he is called "old Collingwood," and he doesn't like the title a bit,' added Vane, laughing genuinely, for the first time that forenoon, as they made their way towards the nearest gate of the Park, which the glittering drags were all leaving by the Marble Arch, and setting forth, viâ Portman Square, for luncheon at Muswell Hill or elsewhere.