"I say, Maud does look splendid, doesn't she?"
It was Val Purcell who voiced the general sentiment, and as he did so he turned from Leonore to whom he had addressed himself, to gaze down the table afresh at her resplendent sister.
Despite the contretemps of the hair, Maud was looking her best—suited by her dress, her ornaments, and the unusual animation which coloured her cheeks, and sparkled in her eyes. Hitherto her looks, though universally admitted, had failed to elicit warmth on the part of any present—since, truth to tell, she was not a favourite. She was too cold and too grand. She never forgot that she was a Boldero, and took care that no one else should. Even honest Val, as we know, did not choose to be booked too surely as her admirer.
But that point being now settled, and the party having been assembled in the lady's honour, he was free to add his mite.
"Splendid!" he repeated, settling down again with unction. "I always did say Maud was a ripper when she chose. I hope her johnnie appreciates his luck. Between you and me, Leo," sinking his voice for her private ear, "I wonder how he dared? I wonder how he ever got it out? Maud can be so awfully nasty—Oh, I say! I don't mean that, you know."
"Then you shouldn't say it," said Leo, shortly. Maud's star was high in the heavens, while her own—where was it? nowhere. She had no star; her little glowworm light was out, and all was darkness—yet she was loyal, even with Val. "Every one is not such a craven as you, Val; and apparently Major Foster——" she paused.
"He appears to have tackled her right enough. I only wonder how he screwed himself up to the point? Bet you he had a good pint of champagne first."
"I daresay," said Leo, absently.
"Now don't you round on me for that, Leo. I know you when you speak like that. You mean to nab me the next minute."
"I shan't nab you this time. I know nothing about Major Foster's proclivities, and can't be answerable for them."