“Oh, beautiful! He is one of the best authors. The last one was the best of all. It’s run through several editions. You ought to read it, Mr Raynor.”
“Can’t stick novels!” declared Bernard, who was never known to read a line beyond the morning papers. “Can’t understand how anyone can when they’ve passed the cub stage. And as to writing them—Good Lord! Fancy that old solemn sides Beverley writing an impassioned love scene! Beats me how he manages to do it.”
“It wouldn’t, if you knew Mrs Beverley!” Teresa said sagely. Her blue eyes brightened, she drew a long, eloquent breath. “She is—adorable!”
The men laughed. Cassandra looked up with a dawning of interest.
“She was Grizel Dundas, niece of that terrible old woman. I’ve heard of her often, but we never met. I’ve met Mr Beverley and his sister, that handsome girl who went to India: they have been here to several garden parties. He is certainly rather stiff, but one feels from his books that he must be worth knowing. It’s interesting to know a man for whom a woman has given up so much, but still more interesting to meet the woman. Tell us, Teresa, what she is like!”
But Teresa wrinkled her brows, and looked vague and perplexed. She could enthuse, but it appeared that she could not describe.
“Er—it’s so difficult! She’s like no one else. I’ve never met anyone in the least like her.”
Cassandra put the invariable question:
“Is she pretty?”
“Oh, lovely!” Teresa cried. “At least—sometimes! She changes. I’ve heard people call her plain. But you hardly think of her looks. She’s so—” Again she hesitated, and became lost in confusion. Cassandra probed once more.