“I have called on your mother,” said she. “I thought you would be on your way to Rome.”
Her lips were red and rather full: her cheeks were pink, her throat and brows were white. Her demeanour was, while modest, neither shy nor self-conscious. David was struck by her height and the extreme slightness of her figure. She wore a large Gainsborough hat with long plumes, a black gown, and a collar of old point de Venise. She had come up from the country, and her presence brought its freshness.
“Why are you in town?” he asked abruptly.
“I was bored at home.”
“And the trousseau?”
“The trousseau?” she said, lifting her eyes for the first time to his.
“They say it is unlucky to try on your wedding-dress,” he continued, seeking relief in the very torture of reminding himself that the date of her marriage with Lord Reckage was fixed.
“I never think about luck,” she answered.
“I met Reckage at the play last night. I lunched with him to-day,” said Rennes.