Mrs. Yorke looked very frail and lovely as she sat opposite her son. Her snowdrop of a face, the pale blue scarf knotted loosely about her neck, with fringed ends hanging over her white dress, the fall of lace fastened to her hair by a rosebud—all made a pretty picture. To the inherent loveliness of the mother, she added the charm of the exquisite lady.
“If you do not need that apostle behind your chair—” her son suggested.
She immediately dismissed Paul Patten; and Carl was free to say, “Now tell me the state of affairs. The engagement I take for granted; but have I got to endure the spectacle of a pair of cooing lovers? I would rather leave the country.”
For a moment Mrs. Yorke was too much occupied to give any reply but a smiling shake of the head. Eating was one of the fine arts with her, and she made a point of having the circumstances of that odious operation as artistic as possible. Having placed an accurate square of currant jelly on a glass plate, where it lay like a ruby block stolen from Solomon’s hidden treasures, and filled a gorgeous Japanese cup with coffee, into which she put a tiny cube of loaf-sugar and a spoonful of cream, she was ready to speak.
“There is no necessity for any such banishment, my dear. Edith is very friendly to him, but she surrounds herself with a fine reserve which he could not break through if he would. I could as soon fancy a gentleman approaching familiarly the Queen of Sheba. They are very little alone together.”
“What delicious coffee!” Carl exclaimed, and immediately began to tell some incidents of his journey.
When they heard the others coming down-stairs, they went to meet them. Melicent came first, with Mr.
Rowan, and all saw with pleasure that the two young men met not only with courtesy, but friendliness. Carl’s invariable, haughty silence whenever Dick Rowan’s name was mentioned had given them some uneasiness regarding the meeting. Indeed, could they have found fault with him for anything, it would have been for what they considered this excess of pride.
The two passed on, Clara following, and, quite in the rear, came Edith, alone. She was half-smiling, and came slowly down, step by step, with a touch of feminine coquetry as innocent and natural as the tricks of a playful kitten, lingering as he waited. Yet her bright cheeks and shining eyes told that the approach was a delight.
But for some reason, Carl chose to be displeased all at once, and, by a slight change of attitude and expression, to be waiting, not to greet her, but to go up-stairs.