It was the luncheon-time at Craigmhor, which Lord Dunkeld only rented. The shooting had not yet begun; the circle therefore had some difficulty in getting through the days, and the necessity for some amusement being devised, 'something being done,' was on the tapis.
Blanche wore a dress of plain blue serge, with a simple linen collar and lace collarette encircling her slender neck. Her hair, of a light golden tint, was dressed in the most perfect taste by the deft fingers of Mademoiselle Rosette, her French maid. In contrast to her hair, her eyes were dark—large eyes, full of observation and expressive of sensitiveness; she had delicately cut lips, which always seemed to droop when she did not smile.
She had a general air of great softness and sweetness, which was most deceptive, as Blanche Galloway was secretly strong, with all the strength of one who in love, hate, or ambition could be fearless, and wily as fearless. Lastly, she had that which so often comes with foreign blood in a girl's veins, the faintest indication of a moustache, or down, at the corners of her red and mobile lips.
Luncheon, we say, was in progress. Colville, Sir Redmond, and some other guests (who have no part in our story) were busy thereat; and the old family butler—in some respects an old family tyrant, who resented any alteration in the daily domestic arrangements as something bordering on a personal affront—was carving at the sideboard.
It was high summer now. The chestnuts were in full leaf, and their shadows were lightened by the silver birches. The garden around Craigmhor was red with roses; the stone vases on the paved terrace were teeming with fragrant blossoms, and the stately peacocks, their tails studded with the fabled eyes of Argus, iridescent and flashing in the sunshine, strutted to and fro.
Craigmhor (or the Great Rock) was neither a Highland stronghold of the middle ages nor a Scoto-French chateau of the latter James's, but a very handsome modern villa, with all the appurtenances and appliances that wealth and luxury can supply in the present day, otherwise my Lady Dunkeld could not have endured it.
Once a belle in Mayfair, she had many remains of beauty still, as she was not over her fortieth year. Sooth to say—and we are sorry to record it—she did not like Scotsmen very much, but she rather approved of Leslie Colville. He was now very rich—the probable inheritor of a title nearly as old as that borne by her husband; and having been educated at Rugby, and being now in the Guards, he was a kind of Englishman by naturalization, a view which perhaps Colville would have resented.
For many reasons Lady Dunkeld did not care about a ball in the country; it was so difficult where to draw the line with regard to the invitations.
In London her balls were always a success—no one knew precisely how or why—yet they were so, though organised just like those of other people. Her cards of invitation were always in keen request, and, though she had the reputation of yearly launching into society, and getting excellent matches for a bevy of lovely girls, her daughter Blanche, now in her twenty-fourth year, was still upon her hands.
So the idea of a garden-party was carried nem. con., as suitable to 'all sorts.'