“Well, madam, here it is. Chapter One.
“‘I shall go to sea to-morrow,’ said Saltash, with sudden decision. ‘I’m so tired of this place, Larpent—fed up to repletion.’
“‘Then by all means let us go, my lord!’ said Larpent, with the faint glimmer of a smile behind his beard, which was the only expression of humour he ever permitted himself.’”
“Give me the nail-file, Foster.”
“‘Saltash turned and surveyed the skyline over the yacht’s rail with obvious discontent on his ugly face. His eyes were odd, one black, one grey, giving a curiously unstable appearance to a countenance which otherwise might have claimed to possess some strength. His brows were black and deeply marked——’”
“Foster, have you taken that stain off the blue serge?”
“Yes, madam. ‘A certain arrogance, a certain royalty of bearing characterised him. Whatever he did—and his actions were often far from praiseworthy—this careless distinction of mien always marked him. He received an almost involuntary respect wherever he went——’”
“Thank you, Foster. That is very nice. I don’t wonder this Saltash man received an almost involuntary respect wherever he went, what with having one grey eye and one black one. I once met a man with a black eye, but I don’t think I’ve ever met a man with eyes of various colours, earl or commoner. But perhaps I will meet one to-night, Foster, and fall in love with him! Oh, dear, it is such a long time since I was in love with any one! What shall I do, Foster?”
“You had better let me do your hair now, madam. It’s getting on.”
“Yes, but how awful it would be never, never to fall in love again! Particularly now that the days are drawing in. Don’t pull so hard, Foster. Hair is, after all, but hair. Wintering in England is a cold business without a man in one’s life. There’s that wretched telephone again! You’re hurting me, girl! If it’s Mrs. Loyalty tell her I can’t lunch with her to-morrow, after all. I shall not be well to-morrow, I feel.”