“Such bad form,” jeered Pat. “Everyone epigrammates nowadays, and you never have the least idea what anyone is talking about. You answer in the same strain, and you wonder what on earth you yourself are talking about. Anyone can get a reputation for being clever, if he’s only vague and wild enough in his conversation.”
In the general laugh at Patricia the group shifted, and Image found himself alone with Claudia. She smiled upon him frankly and said with obvious sincerity:
“It’s so nice to see you again. Don’t run away for a while. By and by, I expect another friend back from ‘furrin parts abroad.’ You remember Colin Paton?”
“Indeed, yes, and shall be glad to see him again.”
“So shall I. He’s such an excellent and satisfying companion. A ‘collectable’ person, you know. At least,” she added, with a slight change of tone, “I used to find him so.”
“That sounds a little like granny, with her ‘When I was young, my dear, I used to——’”
Claudia laughed. “Oh well! friends change, even in eighteen months, or else it is that one changes one’s self, and friends seem different, judged by different standards. Eighteen months may be a day—or an eternity. He went away just before our wedding, you know. He has written me some most delightful letters at intervals since. He is one of the few men who can write something more than a telegram.”
Although he did not appear to be doing so, the keen eyes of her companion were scrutinizing her face as she talked. In middle-age or its borderland lines tell their tale for all to read, massage she ever so assiduously, but the changes in a young face are much more subtle and difficult to classify. But to a student of physiognomy like Carey Image there is sometimes a hint conveyed in the softest curve, a suggestion in an apparently sunny smile, a warning in the glance of brilliantly youthful eyes, such as were now confronting him.
She was not satisfied, she was not happy. The eyes had lost a little of the eager, questioning softness he had noticed in the photograph in Gilbert’s room two years ago, and the mouth had acquired a little more decisiveness and an inclination toward sarcasm rather than smiles. Her whole bearing was much more assured, much more the woman of the world, the woman who has eaten of the Tree of Knowledge. But Image knew that she had not found that fruit altogether sweet. And he was profoundly sorry. He would have been sorry to have read that information on any young man or woman’s face for he always wanted the world to be a more joyful place, but he particularly liked his young hostess. He saw in Claudia the bud that has blossomed but has never been warmed by the good red sun, so that the petals at the heart are still cold and unopened. And with the kindly wisdom of his fifty-four years, Image knew that this spelt danger ahead.
They chatted on, Claudia questioning him about his wanderings abroad, until they were interrupted by one of the servants.