“So you are in love, and flourishing,” she observed, with a smile. “Well, I am very glad. Long may it last. Presently I may tell you my news; but it is such a great secret that I hardly know if I am justified in trusting you.”
Patricia looked up with curiosity.
“Which means that you will tell me, nevertheless,” she rejoined. “What is it, Mamie? Something new?”
The little Countess nodded.
“Something very new; but I am not going to divulge until after lunch. I am too hungry to talk secrets.”
Lunch was a somewhat dreary affair. The Earl seemed to consider it his duty to lead the conversation; and as he was a peculiarly absent-minded man, his efforts were not entirely successful. The Countess, having started her host on the subject of one of his hobbies, confined her attention to her favourite mayonnaise, whilst Patricia, like a dutiful daughter, supplemented her father’s disquisitions by the most intelligent questions she could muster. When it was over, the ladies adjourned to Patricia’s boudoir, which was the cosiest room in the house. It was decorated in the style of the Renaissance, and the few pictures on the walls were of the choicest. Patricia loved to surround herself with pretty things but she also possessed a leaning towards the antique. There was on her little table—itself of ancient origin—a gold snuff-box, which belonged originally to George I.; an old Roman coin, said to be one of the thirty pieces of silver for which Judas Iscariot sold our Lord; the quill pen with which the sentence of Lady Jane Grey was signed; and various other articles of vertu. There was also a small oaken prie-dieu, with the inscription which St. Paul found at Athens displayed above it: “To the Unknown God”; and there was an exquisite marble bust of the late Countess Torrens, Patricia’s mother. There were editions de luxe of the works of Patricia’s favourite poets, and as many photographs of the said poets as could be obtained. In the bow window, which overlooked the square, an old-fashioned harpsichord was placed; here Lady Chesterwood seated herself, and began to play.
The tone of the instrument was mellow, but the fingers of the Countess were stiff. Pianoforte-playing had quite gone out of fashion, for the mechanisms for automatic pianoforte-playing—by means of an attachment to the instrument—were so perfect and in such general use that it was really a waste of energy for a person to manipulate the keys in the old way. This ancient harpsichord, however, was spared the indignity of a mechanical addition. Patricia was too deeply imbued with the sense of the fitness of things to have allowed it, even had it been possible.
“Have you given up wearing a brooch, or have you lost it, Pat?” Lady Chesterwood asked suddenly. She was watching her all the time she played.
Patricia involuntarily put up her hand to her collar.
“Neither,” she answered promptly. “I have given it away.”