“So I heard,”—she said, still observing me curiously—“And you are satisfied with it?”
“More than satisfied—I am delighted. It exceeds all my best expectations.”
“Mr Tempest is going to marry the daughter of the former owner of Willowsmere,”—put in Lucio,—“No doubt you have seen it announced in the papers?”
“Yes;”—she responded with a slight smile—“I have seen it—and I think Mr Tempest is much to be congratulated. Lady Sibyl is very lovely,—I remember her as a beautiful child when I was a child myself—I never spoke to her, but I often saw her. She must be charmed at the prospect of returning as a bride to the old home she loved so well.”
Here the servant entered with the tea, and Miss Clare, [p 227] putting down her tiny dog, went to the table to dispense it. I watched her move across the room with a sense of vague wonder and reluctant admiration,—she rather resembled a picture by Greuze in her soft white gown with a pale rose nestled amid the old Flemish lace at her throat,—and as she turned her head towards us, the sunlight caught her fair hair and turned it to the similitude of a golden halo circling her brows. She was not a beauty; but she possessed an undoubted individual charm,—a delicate attractiveness, which silently asserted itself, as the breath of honeysuckle hidden in the tangles of a hedge, will delight the wayfarer with sweet fragrance though the flowers be unseen.
“Your book was very clever, Mr Tempest”—she said suddenly, smiling at me—“I read it as soon as it came out. But do you know I think your article was even cleverer?”
I felt myself growing uncomfortably red in the face.
“To what article do you allude, Miss Clare?” I stammered confusedly—“I do not write for any magazine.”
“No?” and she laughed gaily—“But you did on this occasion! You ‘slated’ me very smartly!—I quite enjoyed it. I found out that you were the author of the philippic,—not through the editor of the journal—oh no, poor man! he is very discreet; but through quite another person who must be nameless. It is very difficult to prevent me from finding out whatever I wish to know, especially in literary matters! Why, you look quite unhappy!” and her blue eyes danced with fun as she handed me my cup of tea—“You really don’t suppose I was hurt by your critique, do you? Dear me, no! Nothing of that kind ever affronts me,—I am far too busy to waste any thought on reviews or reviewers. Only your article was so exceptionally funny!”
“Funny?” I echoed stupidly, trying to smile, but failing in the effort.