Peignton looked at the clock, and his face fell.
“It’s only three. There’s an hour and more, before then.”
“Does that mean that you want—”
She stopped, smiling, and he answered with eager haste:
“Yes, please! Could you? You are not engaged?”
“Oh, no, I am very seldom engaged. I was in my boudoir working at my embroidery. I’ll have it brought in here.”
She disappeared, to come back a few minutes later followed by a maid carrying an oak stand, which she placed near the couch. The stand proved to be the latest improvement in embroidery frames, the stretched work being swung between upright wooden supports, which were connected at their base by a cross-beam, so as to do service as a footstool. The while Cassandra selected her chair and a small table for working materials, Peignton peered with awed curiosity at the work in process. He beheld what appeared at first sight to be a water-colour painting, the subject a Southern garden, wherein a marble balustrade was overhung by an orange tree in fruit. The distance showed a glimpse of a blue lake, against which three dark cypress trees were sharply outlined. Beside the balustrade walked the lady of the garden, a stately dame, in a robe of gold-embroidered brocade, ermine lined, and falling open over a petticoat of shimmering blue. Her hair was caught in a golden net, she carried in her arms a sheaf of lilies. On the ground by her feet fluttered a flock of pigeons.
Several parts of the background were unfinished, but enough had been done to give the effect of completion, and Peignton’s admiration and astonishment were equally great. It was the first example of needlework painting which he had seen, and he was full of interest, craning forward on his seat to watch, while Cassandra seated herself, placed her feet on the cross-board, and tilting the frame to the right angle, plied her silks in quick, sure stitches, holding the right hand above, and the other beneath the frame. She was completing a corner of the under-dress, and she showed him how, to gain the desired shot effect, she had twisted together half-threads of green and blue.
“It is the most difficult thing in the world to get silks that are indefinite enough to work the little odd bits,” she explained. “You can get every colour—exquisite colours, but they are so clear, and strong, and new, and unpicturesque! I have to take refuge in all sorts of dodges. I dip the white silks in tea, and coffee, to take off the glare; and the greys in ink, to make them cloudy, and the rose and blue in acids to tone them down into an old-world softness. Sometimes I dye one end of a skein, and leave the other untouched; that gives quite a good effect. I’m always on the look out for old silks, but they are difficult to find, and the ordinary fancy-work emporium-keeper has not awakened to the needs of pictures. When I asked one the other day for a colour to work an old brick wall, she gaped at me as if I were mad. However, with cunning and ingenuity, I have managed to collect quite a useful selection...”
“You don’t—excuse me! treat them with much consideration, now that you have got them,” Peignton said, lifting a tangled mass of colour from the table, and smoothing it with careful fingers. “I remember my mother doing crewel-work in the days of my youth, and having each separate shade run through a kind of tunnel business in a roll of linen. You pulled a thread from the roll, and—there you were! They never grew matted into balls.”