“Who?”
“Miss Diana, sir.”
“You saw her?”
“Yes, sir; there was a ball at Rygon House. The valet is a friend of mine. I looked in. Miss Diana held her own. She stood out among the disputants. She excited a certain—a creditable amount of jealousy, among the right people. It was the opinion, expressed on the other side of the swing door, that she should go far.... Yes, sir, she is taller than her ladyship and, in a sense, fairer. I should say her hair is hardly golden, although I suspect in sunlight I should discover myself in error. Her skin is dazzling.... You will remember, sir, calling my attention to the skins of the women—in Munich I think it was?—And her carriage—you will perhaps remember drawing my attention to the carriage of the women in—the Andalusian women? Yes, sir, Andalusian—I think I am correct—How was she dressed, sir?”
Mr. Maitland had not asked the question.
“In white, sir. It didn’t look white. I mean, if you will excuse me, there were many in white, but Miss Diana looked conspicuous. She might have been in scarlet—she showed up so—stood out. I have heard you use the expression with regard to the paintings of old masters. As we left Madrid, I think it was, sir, you lamented the lost art of paintrature.”
“That will do, Pillar. Did her ladyship see you?”
“Her ladyship did me that honour, sir. I handed her a cup of coffee in order to make myself known, saying, ‘Sugar, my lady,’ if I remember rightly. Miss Diana took no refreshment. Her ladyship asked for you, sir; she thought you were not in town. I told her you had just returned from Norway.”
“Thank you, Pillar; that’s all.”
“Miss Carston comes here, sir?”