"I don't at all see why we should look foolish. You may leave me to arrange all that." Miss Browne shook her head, but offered no further opposition in words.
Cecilia Collumpton had stated no more than the truth when she said that Mora Browne looked far more like an heiress than she did--that is, taking the common idea of what an heiress ought to look like. For Mora was tall, fair, and stately, with large, limpid blue eyes and a wealth of yellow hair. Her figure had the ample proportions of a youthful Juno, but as all her movements seemed tuned to slow music, there was no perceptible lack of harmony. She had a cold, clear, incisive voice, and a slight hauteur of manner, which in her case was not affectation, seeing that it was natural to her and not put on. She was the daughter of a rector who had ruined himself and his family by some mad speculations in mining shares. Although she was Cecilia's dearest friend, and had known her since girlhood, she would not come to live with her except on the footing of a paid companion, to whom, and by whom, a month's notice could at any time be given. But none the less had Mora an intense detestation of poverty and all its surroundings, and years ago she had made up her mind that if she were ever to marry it should be only to some man of ample fortune, who could afford to keep her as she felt she ought to be kept.
Cecilia Collumpton at this time was just twenty-two years old. She was a brunette, and rather petite in figure. She had a small, classically shaped head, a straight, clear-cut nose, and eyes of the darkest gray, with gleams of opaline light in them whenever she was at all excited. She was quick, vivacious, and emotional, and brimful of spirits and energy. She was easily imposed upon. A tale of distress brought tears to her eyes in a moment, and she never paused to inquire whether it was a reality or a sham before bringing out her purse. She was fond of riding, but loved a wild scamper across the downs far more than a regulation canter in the park. Her aunt called her "undisciplined," and Lady Loughton termed her "a hoyden," while Slingsby Boscombe, in some verses he once addressed to her--the feet of which, truth to tell, halted so wofully that Sir Percy Jones, who happened to come across them one day, gave it as his opinion that they must have been composed by a cripple--wrote of her as his "sweet wild rose," and yet Slingsby had never been in love with her.
Miss Browne, followed by Cecilia, sailed slowly into the room where Clement was waiting. He broke his reverie with a start, and advanced a few steps to meet them. "You are Mr. Fildew?" said Mora. Clem bowed. "And you have called respecting a portrait which Sir Percy Jones has commissioned you to paint?"
"Yes, Sir Percy asked me to call without delay, as his time in England was now getting very short. I am desirous of knowing on what days and at what hours it will be convenient for you to give me the requisite sittings."
Mora put a finger to her lips, and considered for a moment.
"To-day is Tuesday. Suppose we say Thursday next, at eleven, for the first sitting. We can arrange for future sittings afterwards. Will that suit you, Mr. Fildew?"
"Any time will suit me, madam. On this card you will find the address of my studio."
"I wish you to bear in mind, Mr. Fildew," said Mora, as she took the card, "that there will be two portraits for you to paint."
"Two portraits, Miss Collumpton!"