His hair, a little white on the temples, was thick and slightly wavy. His blue eyes, keen above a hawk-like nose, gleamed every now and then with a trace of irony; that irony which has become habitual, the recognized medium through which its possessor views the world. A shrewd observer would have guessed the character represented by such a face to be difficult and complex. Instinctively one knew that François Fontenelle would be no very easy man to thwart; one guessed also that he might be a man apt to form his own rules of conduct, to carve his own path in life, without too much consideration for the convenience or the paths of others.
As Miss Page rose and stretched out her hand, he stooped and kissed it with the graceful ease of manner natural to a Frenchman.
Mrs. Carfax felt quite embarrassed.
“So foreign,” she thought; the phrase expressing unconscious disapprobation.
“Glad we haven’t those monkey tricks!” was her husband’s half-formed mental exclamation.
Mrs. Dakin’s heart gave a curious little flutter for which she could not account, except that she liked the manners of Frenchmen, and was for the moment acutely conscious of the dulness of life.
To her husband, the action suddenly recalled the days of Madame de Pompadour.
He glanced at the fan he still held, and his mind wandered to a book of that lady’s period which he had long coveted, and had hitherto been unable to obtain.
Absorbed in reverie, he missed Miss Page’s formal introduction, and was only recalled to the present day by the general movement following the announcement that dinner was served.
The dining-room at Fairholme Court, in the older part of the house, was a long, low room with casement windows, and carved beams supporting the ceiling.