“Perdita, Marquise Desmoines.”
Sir Francis leant back heavily in his chair, and his arms fell loosely at his side. He stared at the charming figure in front of him with a sort of vacant consternation. She threw back her veil.
The face that was thus revealed was certainly not one to disappoint the most sanguine expectations. In shape it was a full oval, the nose delicate and pointed, with the tip mobile to the changing play of the lips in smiling or speaking. Her chin was firm, her throat solid, round and white. It was the face of one capable alike of luxurious indolence and dangerous energy; endowed with dimples for mirth and with clear-cut lines for resolute purpose. Sound sense and accurate memory dwelt in the broad brow; good temper in the curve of cheek and eyelid; passion in the full lower lip. From the movements of the features and the poise of the head upon the neck might be divined that she was proud, generous, or implacable, as the whim suited her; but the dominant expression at present was one of archly mischievous amusement.
“You don’t seem glad to see me, Uncle Francis!” she exclaimed, making a moue of lovely irony.
No answer from the baronet.
“You wanted to kiss me just now; come—I am ready.”
Sir Francis was still speechless.
“Why, uncle, how unsympathetic you are grown all of a sudden! Don’t you love your poor widowed niece, whom you haven’t seen or heard of for ten years? You were so complimentary and affectionate a moment ago! And so generous, too, uncle,” she added, holding up the signed agreement between her white forefinger and thumb. At the sight of this the baronet’s countenance became ghastly, and he emitted a groan.
Perdita, Marquise Desmoines, threw back her head and laughed with all her might—a laugh full of liquid music. “You are a most incomprehensible man, uncle,” she declared, when she had recovered herself. “When my veil is down you call me fairest of my sex, dearest creature, and sweetest of women; you go down on your knees to me, devour my hand, and pay me ten thousand a year to live in London. You were so delightfully impetuous, in short, that you almost frightened me. Who would have expected such ardor from a man of your age? Then, when the veil is lifted, you sit as silent and impassive as a bag of guineas; you glare at me as if I were a gorgon. I hope you will be more agreeable when you come to see me this evening? We understand each other, you know—don’t we?—eh, uncle?” And she laughed once more.
“Well, well, Perdita,” said the baronet at last in a feeble voice, “you are a monstrous clever girl, and you may have your laugh out. As for that paper, you may as well return it me at once. You have your jest; that was mine.”