When she entered the drawing-room she almost startled the others, so strong was the contrast between her present effective garments and the black raiment she had affected constantly since her return to Beechcroft after her marriage.
“The reform has commenced,” she cried gaily, seeing how they looked at her. “My maid is in ecstasies about the proposed visit to my dressmaker’s. She insisted on showing me a study for an Ascot frock in the Queen.”
“Ah, she is a Frenchwoman?” said Brett.
“Yes; and pray what mystery have you elucidated now?”
“Not a mystery, but a sober fact. A Frenchwoman must be in the mode. Anybody else would have told you to copy yourself. Fashions are a sealed book to me, but I do claim a certain taste in colour effect, and you have gratified it.”
“And have you nothing nice to say to me, Mr. Brett?” pouted Helen.
“So much that I must remain dumb. I have a vivid recollection of Mr. Hume’s tragic air when he asked me to give you ‘his kind regards.’”
“The dear boy! You have not yet told us why you left him in London.”
In view of Mrs. Capella’s outspokenness concerning her cousin, this was a poser. Brett fenced with the query, and the announcement of dinner stopped all personal references. The barrister’s eyes wandered round the dining-room. The shaded candles on the table did not permit much light to fall on the walls, but such portraits as were visible showed that David was right when he said the “Hume-Frazers were all alike.” They were a handsome, determined-looking race, strong, dour, inflexible.
The night was beautifully fine. The day seemed loth to die, and the twilight lingering on the pleasant landscape tempted them outside, after the butler had handed Brett a box of excellent cigars.