Cicely Farrell certainly took no notice of him. She was sitting perched on the high end of a sofa smoking a cigarette and dangling her feet, which were encased, as before, in high-heeled shoes and immaculate gaiters. She was dressed in white serge with a cap and jersey of the brightest possible green. Her very open bodice showed a string of fine pearls and she wore pearl ear-rings. Seen in the same room with Nelly Sarratt she could hardly be guessed at less than twenty-eight. She was the mature woman in full possession of every feminine weapon, experienced, subtle, conscious, a little hard, a little malicious. Nelly Sarratt beside her looked a child. Miss Farrell had glanced at her with curiosity, but had not addressed many words to her. She had concluded at once that it was a type that did not interest her. It interested William of course, because he was professionally on the look out for beauty. But that was his affair. Miss Farrell had no use for anything so unfledged and immature. And as for the sister, Miss Cookson, she had no points of attraction whatever. The young man, the husband, was well enough—apparently a gentleman; but Miss Farrell felt that she would have forgotten his existence when the tea-party was over. So she had fallen back on conversation with her cousin. That Cousin Hester—dear, shapeless, Puritanical thing!—disapproved of her, her dress, her smoking, her ways, and her opinions, Cicely well knew—but that only gave zest to their meetings, which were not very frequent.
Meanwhile Bridget, in lieu of conversation and while tea was still preparing, was making mental notes of the cottage. It consisted apparently of two sitting-rooms, and a studio—in which they were to have tea—with two or three bedrooms above. It had been developed out of a Westmorland farm, but developed beyond recognition. The spacious rooms panelled in plain oak, were furnished sparely, with few things, but those of the most beautiful and costly kind. Old Persian rugs and carpets, a few Renaissance mirrors, a few priceless 'pots,' a picture or two, hangings and coverings of a dim purple—the whole, made by these various items and objects, expressed a taste perhaps originally florid, but tamed by long and fastidious practice of the arts of decoration.
In the study where tea had been laid, Nelly could not restrain her wonder and delight. On one wall hung ten of the most miraculous Turners—drawings from his best period, each of them irreplaceably famous. Another wall showed a group of Boningtons—a third a similar gathering of Whistlers. Sir William, charmed with the bride's pleasure, took down drawing after drawing, carried them to the light for her, and discoursed upon them.
'Would you like that to copy?'—he said, putting a Turner into her lap—a marvel of blue mountain peaks, and winding river, and aerial distance.
'Oh, I shouldn't dare—I should be afraid!' said Nelly, hardly liking to take the treasure in her own hands. 'Aren't they—aren't they worth immense sums?'
Sir William laughed.
'Well, of course, they're valuable—everybody wants them. But if you would ever like that one to copy, you shall have it, and any other that would help you. I know you wouldn't let it be hurt, if you could help it—because you'd love it—as I do. You wouldn't let a Turner drawing like that fade and blister in the sun—as I've seen happen again and again in houses he painted them for. Brutes! Hanging's too good for people who maltreat Turners. Let me relieve you of it now. I must get you some tea. But the drawing will come to you next week. You won't be able to think of it till then.'
He looked at her with the ardent sympathy which sprang easily from his quick, emotional temperament, and made it possible for him to force his way rapidly into intimacy, where he desired to be intimate. But Nelly shrank into herself. She put the drawing away, and did not seem to care to look at any more. Farrell wished he had left his remark unspoken, and finding that he had somehow extinguished her smiles and her talk, he relieved her of his company, and went away to talk to Sarratt and Captain Marsworth. As soon as tea was over, Nelly beckoned to her husband.
'Are you going so soon?' said Hester Martin, who had been unobtrusively mothering her, since Farrell left her—'When may I come and see you?'
'To-morrow?' said Nelly vaguely, looking up. 'George hoped you would come, before he goes. There are—there are only three days.'