"Very much at home," Stephen interposed, conscious of Jill's swift glance of disgust—"the window, you observe, bears silent witness to it." He pointed a slender finger at the broken pane. Then went on smoothly: "You'll stay to lunch, of course." But Peter ignored him, his eyes on his hostess.
"Of course he will," Mrs. Uniacke echoed the words, "and there goes the gong." She pushed her papers together with a regretful glance at the unfinished work, as Roddy, his face shining with its hurried ablutions, slipped in noiselessly and joined the little group.
"It's very kind of you," McTaggart replied, "and I'd simply love to lunch with you and the kids."
As they passed through the hall Jill heard her friend say politely to Somerville:
"You lunching too?"
CHAPTER III
Cydonia sat in the window seat, her face full of dreams, her white hands folded above her needlework. The smooth and slender fingers with their faintly pink nails, the small head so proudly set on the long rounded neck, her air of self-possession, of calm dignity suggested an ancient lineage that in truth was not hers.
For Cydonia was a miracle. In a freakish spring-tide mood Dame Nature had evolved a jest at the expense of caste. From the union of a withered, elderly governess with a rich cheesemonger past the prime of life she had sprung on an astounded world this exquisite young creature with all the outward signs of patrician birth.
Exquisite she was: exquisite and inert. From the slim, arched feet beneath her satin gown to the pale golden hair parted above her brow and gathered in a great knot behind her little ears, flawless she showed against the window's light, like a picture by a master's hand in delicate silver point.