She looked much better when, an hour later, she descended to the salon. Her gown of filmy chiffon and lace suited her to perfection, and anticipation had lent a touch of colour to her cheeks. The Princess, who was in black relieved and studded by gems which glittered with every ray of light, glanced at her with satisfaction.
“Moore is here,” she announced quietly. “He arrived about ten minutes ago, and has gone up to see Phyllis and dress.”
Nevertheless the Premier was absent from the dinner-table, and the Countess was kept on tenter-hooks until the gentlemen rejoined the ladies, when she noticed his short, thick-set figure at the entrance to the lounge. The band in the north gallery had begun the overture to Faust, and his coming was—by a coincidence—heralded by the martial tones of the Soldiers’ Chorus. She put down the untasted cup of coffee on the little table at her side, and trifled nervously with the diamond collar on her neck. The next moment she had shaken hands and was exchanging commonplaces with the first man in England. Her nervousness suddenly vanished, leaving her natural and free.
The Press had often remarked on the apparent likeness between the Premier and Napoleon the Great. Certainly Athelstan Moore possessed eagle-eyes, a Roman nose, and somewhat round and stooping shoulders, and the brusqueness of his manner considerably strengthened the effect. He jerked out his words in the tone of one accustomed to command, and was absolutely devoid of the saving sense of humour. That was why some people found his society somewhat trying. He never could—or would—receive a joke.
“You are late,” the Countess said, as she made room for him beside her. “I expected you long ago.”
“Yes; I was detained in town. I could have been down to dinner, however, had not Phyllis insisted on my staying with her until she went to sleep.”
It was a curious fact that while the Premier never suffered himself to be dictated to by those whose powers of thought equalled his own, he was as wax in the hands of his child. The Countess smiled.
“Phyllis has been quarrelling with my little Leslie,” she informed him, with pretended gravity. “It is strange that they two can never agree.”
“I suppose it is because the girl is older than the boy,” he returned thoughtfully. “A boy does not like to be commanded by a girl, even if she be older than himself. I must have a serious talk with Phyllis. I do not wish her to quarrel with anyone, least of all your little boy.”
He laid stress on the pronoun. The Countess knew what he meant, but she said nothing, and turned over the pages of her book with apparent carelessness. The lounge was filling, and the music ceased. Espying the figure of a well-known political bore opposite, Moore leant farther back in shadow. He knew that if he were noticed he would be called upon to talk politics for the remainder of the evening; and although it was true that his life was bound up in his beloved Government, he was not anxious to enter into a controversy just now.