She wondered how old he was. It was difficult to guess. He might be younger than herself—not more than a year or two at the most. What caused that look on his face? It certainly was not fear; he was fearless, she thought. It was a sort of hunted look, as though he were always expecting something to happen and was on his guard. She would like to know the cause of it.
"You cannot imagine how difficult I am to take care of," she said.
"I am not afraid of the task," he said. "Will you lunch with me?"
"With pleasure," she replied, and they went inside.
The room was well filled, a fashionable crowd; several people knew Mrs. Elroy and acknowledged her. To a certain extent she had lived down the past, but the recollection of it made her the more interesting. Women were afraid of her attractions, especially those who had somewhat fickle husbands; their alarm was groundless, had they known it.
"Wonder who that is with her? He's a fine looking man, but there's something peculiar about him," said a lady.
"What do you see peculiar in him? Seems an ordinary individual to me," drawled her husband.
"He is not ordinary by any means; his complexion is peculiar, a curious yellowy brown," she said.
"Perhaps he's a West Indian, or something of that sort."
They sat at a small table alone; she thoroughly enjoyed the lunch. She drank a couple of glasses of champagne and the sparkling wine revived her.