‘Mr. Sybert! We were afraid you weren’t coming. When did you get here?’
‘On the late train. I have been in the south, and I didn’t get back to the city till this afternoon.’
‘Your arrivals are always so spectacular,’ she said. ‘We entirely give you up, and then the first thing we know you are quietly standing before us on the rug.’
‘I should call that the reverse of spectacular.’
‘Have you seen Uncle Howard? Did they find any place to put you? The house is cram full.’
‘Oh, yes, I’ve been officially welcomed. I have a bed in your uncle’s dressing-room.’
‘You may be thankful for that. The next comer, I am afraid, will be put in the cellar.’
Sybert did not choose to prolong these amenities of welcome any further, and he stood quietly watching her while she buttoned her gloves. She looked very radiant to-night, with the candle-light gleaming on her hair and her hazel eyes shining with excitement. Her gown was the filmiest, shimmering white with an undertone of green. About her neck the pearls gleamed whitely, each separate jewel a pulsing globe of light. Marcia glanced up and touched the necklace with her hand.
‘This is Uncle Howard’s birthday present,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it lovely? It’s a copy of an old, old necklace in Castellani’s collection. My uncle gives me pearls, and my father is sending wheat.’
She turned aside into the long salon, and Sybert followed her. If Marcia had been momentarily jostled from her self-possession by his sudden appearance, she had completely regained her poise. She was buoyantly at her ease again. There was a touch of intimacy, almost of coquetry, about her manner as she talked; and yet—Sybert noted the fact with a sub-smile of comprehension—she avoided crossing eyes with him. That moment by the fireside was still too vivid. They returned to the hall, and Marcia stepped to the door leading on to the loggia. The cornice was outlined with tiny coloured lamps, while a man was lighting others by the terrace balustrade. She glanced back at Sybert, who was standing still in the hall.