Mrs. Romayne’s dress was not a success—that is to say, it was perfect in itself, and failed only as a setting for its wearer; to deprive her appearance of any possibility of “chic” or “dash” was to deprive it of all its brilliancy. But no unsuitability of colouring or cut in her gown could have been responsible for the look which underlay her smile, as she turned to Julian now and struck a little attitude of mock implacability, with a light, high-pitched laugh.
“Then the conversation must be carried on in dumb show,” she said, “for language also fails to express my feelings, sir. What have you to say for yourself?”
Her voice, for all its gaiety, was thin and strained.
“Please, nothing,” was the mock-humility answer. “I met a fellow, and he beguiled me. He was just off to America.”
He was standing with his hands folded and his eyes cast down, and he did not see—he would not have understood if he had seen—the strange flash in those hard, blue eyes—such a flash as might leap up in the eyes of a woman in the silent endurance of a swift stab of pain.
“A very poor excuse,” declared Mrs. Romayne gaily. “No, I don’t think I shall forgive you yet. Such unscrupulous desertion must be visited as it deserves. Don’t you think so?”
Lord Garstin had come up to them, and the question was addressed to him with a light laugh as she gave him her hand. He nodded pleasantly to Julian as he answered:
“Who has deserted? Not this boy of yours, eh?”
Mrs. Romayne laughed again, and pushed Julian playfully with her fan.
“Oh, I forgot! You don’t know his wickedness, of course! Take me away from him, Lord Garstin, do, and I’ll confide in you. Gorgeous affair this, isn’t it? I wonder what it cost?”