Tall and graceful, she moved towards us with that sort of almost insolent satisfaction which some beautiful women habitually suggest. Beautiful she certainly was, but compared to Mercia (I instinctively compared everyone with Mercia now) it was the beauty of fire against sunshine. Fire indeed seemed a very fitting simile for Lady Baradell. It glimmered in her wonderful bronze hair, and smouldered dangerously in the deep brown eyes with their curious golden-tinted irises. Her dress, a daring affair of almost flame-coloured material, completed the illusion.
"And so the great man has taken pity on us," she said in her slow musical voice. "Was London so terribly hot as all that, Mr. Northcote?"
"I seem to have a very undeserved reputation," I protested. "No one enjoys the beautiful things of life more than I do."
Lady Baradell raised her eyebrows and looked round with a smile.
"Saul among the prophets!" she said. "Maurice, what has happened to him?"
I waited for Maurice's answer with a malicious amusement.
"I don't know," he drawled. "I asked him myself, the other day, and he said that one must be agreeable occasionally, if only for the sake of variety."
There was a general laugh, cut short by the distant sound of a gong.
"Time to dress," observed Aunt Mary. "Dear me! how quickly the evenings go!"
We all moved back towards the house, Maurice thrusting his arm through mine and remarking in an affable fashion that he would take me up and show me my room.