“Please, someone, who is he?” begged Mrs. Chester. “He’s so very tall and black....”
“Marlay, novelist,” explained Hugo Cypress. “But comes of quite good people—on one side. Missed an earldom by an heir’s breath....”
“Clever,” snapped Lois.
“Only by contrast, dear....”
“Well, I never!” sighed Mrs. Chester. “And is that what makes him so bad-tempered looking? Tell me, George....” Ivor was bareheaded and looked rather tousled, that’s all.
Tarlyon grinned at Virginia, but addressed Mrs. Chester. He waved his hand towards the figure.
“We don’t know yet,” he said. “He is one of our leading authorities on courtesans.”
“In that case,” Lois turned sharply on him, “he’ll talk less about them than you do, George.”
“Oh, pretty!” said Hugo Cypress. And lashed out with his foot at the companionable little Earl—Johnny was his name—who thus woke up just in time to miss the pleasure of his wife’s wit. Lois could be sharp, very. But Tarlyon never minded her.
“Hallo, they’re off!” he cried now. For the company on the terrace was decreased by one. Suddenly, swiftly, silently, Virginia had left them. Down the steps went her feet, and the others stared after her as she walked across the grass towards her guest: who, seeing her, stepped from the path towards her. They met. The lady had no parasol, and the sun made festival of her hair. The sun shone furiously down on them, revealing the gold of a woman’s hair and the mystery of a man’s smile, for all smiles are mysterious from a distance; and Virginia had her back to the terrace, they could see only Ivor Marlay’s smile of greeting. And Lois thought: “That same rather courtly smile—how it used to annoy Virginia years ago! Well, well, even Virginia grows up....”