“Rather,” I assented faintly.
I glanced beyond her into the fresh blue eyes of young Jack Whitehouse, and I wondered if the alert, manly young fellow, with his untried but inherited capabilities, knew that he had been accepted as a husband because his hair curled and he looked “chappie.”
“I suppose you have heard the news, haven’t you?” she went on.
“Nothing in particular. What news?”
“Look across the house and you will see.”
Just entering their box opposite were Louise King and Norris Whitehouse, Jack’s uncle.
“What do you mean?” I asked, with a wrench at Pet’s little hand which made her wince.
“It’s an engagement. Uncle and nephew engaged the same season. Isn’t it rich? Think of Louise King being my aunt. She is only twenty-three.”
Then they saw us and bowed. I felt faint as my mind adjusted itself to this new arrangement. I levelled my glass at them.
Louise, magnificently tall and handsome, looked quite self-contained. She is one of the best-bred girls I know, but it required a stronger imagination than mine to fathom what mysterious change had transformed her from the impulsive, loving creature of Charlie Hardy’s story to this serene-eyed woman, who had deliberately elected to marry at the funeral of her own heart.