"Arnaud? I don't know any Arnaud. Are you sure he asked for me and not for Mr Aird?"
"It was Sir George Coverham he asked for, sir."
"Well, where is he?"
"Here—at least he was a moment ago——"
"Arnaud?" I mused. "Do you know a M'sieur Arnaud, Jennie?"
As I turned to her I saw her in that false illumination with curious distinctness. The soft upward glow from the path reminded one of a photographer's manipulation of his tissue-paper screens. She stood there semi-footlighted—smooth brows, low glint of her hair, the caught-up upper lip that showed the pearls, her steady gaze....
Ah, her gaze! What was this, that made me for a moment unable to remove my own eyes from her face? At what object beyond the car was she so fixedly looking? Why had her bosom risen? Why, as if at some "Open, Sesame!" did that betraying upper lip offer, not two, but all the pearls within?
My eyes followed hers....
As they did so sounds of talk and laughter and farewells drew near from the house. The departing guests were upon us.
But I had seen. If only for an instant before it retreated swiftly into the shadows again, I had seen. Gazing at her as steadily as she had gazed at him, the vision of a young man's face had momentarily appeared.