The Honorable Mary looks up from her Parisian fashion-book, and glances from the window with a smile.
"Restrain your impatience, Gwendoline," she answers. "Here comes Lady
Portia now."
A minute later the door is flung wide by a tall gentleman in plush, and Lady Portia Hampton sweeps in. She is a tall, slender lady, very like her sister: the same dully fair complexion, the same coiffure of copper-gold, the same light, inane blue eyes. The dull complexion wears at this moment an absolute flush; the light, lack-lustre eyes an absolute sparkle. There is something in her look as she sails forward, that makes them both look up expectantly from their books.
"Well?" Lady Gwendoline says.
"Gwen!" her sister exclaims—absolutely exclaims—"whom do you suppose I have met?"
"The Czarina of all the Russias, Pio Nino, Her Majesty back from
Osborne, or the Man in the Moon, perhaps," retorts Lady Gwendoline.
"Neither," laughs Lady Portia. "Somebody a great deal more mysterious and interesting than any of them. You never will guess whom."
"Being five o'clock of a sultry summer day, I don't intend to try.
Tell us at once, Portia, and let us go."
"Then—prepare to be surprised! Sir Victor Catheron!"
"Portia!"