“How do you do?” she said in that rich voice, gave me one full look with eyes cold and pale as sapphires, and blinked languidly, as if the discussion were closed.
Pendleton did not let me linger in perplexity. He gave me up to Belvoir, who shook hands with a faint smile, saying, “Mr. Bannerlee and I spelled our names to each other in the hall a little while ago.”
Next was Lord Ludlow. “I’ve seen him,” remarked his Lordship, gazing at me with a little asperity, crinkling the skin over the high-pitched bridge of his nose, and sat down, for he was wishful of continuing the game, or of giving the impression that such was his desire.
I was whisked to the second table and made acquainted with the sole woman there. Eve Bartholomew (God give her peace!) grasped my hand for a tug or two, exclaiming hurriedly, “Oh, how do you do?” And she added, with ill-feigned casualness, “They say you’ve been out on the hills to-day. You’re sure you haven’t seen Sir Brooke?”
“Quite sure, Mrs. Bartholomew.”
“Or hear of anyone who might be him—he?”
“No.”
Next I was set face-to-face with her partner, the red-faced young man, who I was not surprised to learn was Sean Cosgrove. His head was large, his features large, too, without being lubberly. The ruddiness of his complexion was accentuated by his very black and shining hair, short and thick. There was something grim and settled in the line of his jaw, and his blazing black eyes bore out the character of determination. He shook hands unsmiling, gravely.
“My congratulations,” I offered.
He gave a short bow, looking at the floor. Then, “I have heard of you,” he said, with not a trace of Irish lilt or accent in his speech.