“So I supposed when I saw you enter,” said the Master haughtily. “Good-night, Mr. Wharton.”
Tom Wharton bowed.
“I take my—dismissal,” he smiled. “I shall hope to see you at Kensington, Sir John—au revoir, my lady.”
She made a slight inclination of her head.
“Good-night, my lord.” Tom Wharton’s face was dimpled with the most mirthful of smiles; he bowed himself out exquisitely, and when the door closed on him the room seemed the gloomier by contrast.
The silence remained unbroken; the Viscount was making notes on the margin of his book; the Master stood with his back to his wife and stared into the fire; she slowly flung her cloak off with no attempt at speech.
She was a perfect type of Lely’s heroines: he had painted her more than once and had delighted in her blonde loveliness, her small features, her great languishing blue eyes, her soft foolish mouth, the pale yellow hair smooth as satin in its great curls, the white shoulders and rosy fingers, the full throat and entrancing little dimple in her chin; she should now have been at the height of her beauty, but unhappiness had worn her delicate face, dimmed her eyes and dragged her mouth, marring the whole with an expression of fretful misery.
Still, to-night rouge, powder and patches had made amends for tears; she was splendidly dressed in flowing white satin, hung about with pearls, and in this soft light no one could have detected a flaw in her beauty, as she sat droopingly, with her hands in her lap.
The Master of Stair turned at last.
“Why did you go with Mr. Wharton?” he demanded. “I desired you not to continue this acquaintance.”