“Perhaps—tell me about my room?”
He had forgotten to look at the surroundings. The room was long, and rather high—the walls were a dull rich cream colour; quantities of flowers were arranged everywhere, principally irises with their long leaves, in immense dull brown jars. Standing near the piano was a eucalyptus tree, its dull grey-green leaves hung over Launa. Green, brown, and cream were the colours in the room, with red here and there—the warm red of autumn leaves.
“The room suits you,” he replied.
Mr. Wainbridge found personal conversation was over with the change of room. She talked of the last new book, and of bicycling. He made himself agreeable. He was a prudent young man, and well received everywhere; plain daughters of dukes and marquises were glad to talk to him—he was a Possibility; there was a doubt owing to his uncle and the Plymouth Sister. There was a legend about Mr. Wainbridge that he once had loved someone of the lower classes—the someone was indefinite—it was supposed she had died or married. Some people gave Mr. Wainbridge credit for the virtue of forsaking her.
They had finished tea when Mr. George was announced. He had a large book with him. It was his own book of proverbs, and he brought it to present to Launa.
“Precept is better than example,” he began. “Don’t you think so, Wainbridge? I always have set a good example, but—”
“Mrs. Carden,” said the maid, and the rest of Mr. George’s sentence was lost in the rustle of that lady’s entrance.
She was arrayed principally in bugles. She looked war-like, and as if she might suddenly sound the call to battle on one of her ornaments.
Launa introduced the men to her. Mrs. Carden accepted tea, and observed that George was away.
“I am here,” whispered Mr. George softly. “Does she want me?”