But Lady Arabella swept his objections aside with regal indifference.
“Crossing, is he?” she snapped. “Well, tell him I want him to dine here and go to the show with us afterwards. He’ll cross the day after, you’ll find—if he crosses at all!” she wound up enigmatically.
So it came about that her two lions, the last-arrived artist and the soon-to-arrive musician, were both dining with her on the appointed evening.
Lady Arabella adored lions. Also, notwithstanding her seventy years, she retained as much original Eve in her composition as a girl of seventeen, and she adored young men.
In particular, she decided that she approved of Michael Quarrington. She liked the clean English build of him. She liked his lean, square jaw and the fair hair with the unruly kink in it which reminded her of a certain other young man—who had been young when she was young—and to whom she had bade farewell at her parents’ inflexible decree more than fifty years ago. Above all, she liked the artist’s eyes—those grey, steady eyes with their look of reticence so characteristic of the man himself.
Reticence was an asset in her ladyship’s estimation. It showed good sense—and it offered provocative opportunities for a battle of wits such as her soul loved.
“Have you seen my god-daughter dance, Mr. Quarrington?” she asked him.
“Yes, several times.”
His tone was non-committal and she eyed him sharply.
“Don’t admire dancing, do you?” she threw at him.