Fayre meditated, enjoying his cigarette.
“No, I don’t like her,” he said at last. “We get women like that in India.”
“We get them in England too.”
Lady Kean’s voice sounded suddenly flat and lifeless and Fayre, realizing suddenly how late it was, decided that she was tired and that he had better leave her to herself for a time. In any case, he had no desire to discuss Mrs. Draycott. She had been his fellow-guest at Staveley for the past week and he had been glad to see her go.
He had just risen to his feet when the door opened and Lady Cynthia came in.
She stood in the doorway, straight and slim, sheathed in vivid blue, her dark shingled hair clinging in tight waves about her beautiful little head and, at the sight of her, Fayre realized the truth of Lady Kean’s description. There was something “gallant” about this quaint mixture of youth and self-reliance, and it appealed to him at once. That she was popular, there could be no doubt. A chorus of welcome greeted her entrance, and Lady Staveley swept to meet her and draw her up to the fire.
“Cynthia, dear, you must be frozen. Your hands are like ice. Is it bitter outside?”
The girl nodded.
“Pretty bad. The wind’s dropped, though.”
To Fayre, observing her with frank curiosity, her voice sounded tense and there was a glitter in her eyes and a flush just beneath them that troubled him. Was the “modern” girl, he wondered, usually as exotic as this? If so, heaven help her! He watched her as she bent over Lady Kean and was struck by the real affection and solicitude she showed in her manner.