He was a man of thirty or so, his features were perfectly regular, but his expression was rather wooden. His eyes were good, but rather too close together. His mouth was hidden by a huge moustache, curled and twisted and pointed forwards.
Armorel disliked his manner, and for some reason or other distrusted his face.
He left off laying down the law on music, and began to talk about things personal.
'I hope you like your new companion,' he said. 'She is an old friend of mine. I was in hopes of being able to advance her husband in his profession. But he died before I got the chance. Mr. Jagenal told me what was wanted, and I was happy in recommending Zoe—Mrs. Elstree.'
'Thank you,' said Armorel, coldly. 'I dare say we shall get to like each other in time.'
'If so, I shall rejoice in having been of some service to you as well as to her. What is her day at home?'
'I believe we are to be at home on Wednesdays.'
'As for me,' he said lightly, 'I am always at home in my studio. I am a triple slave—Miss Rosevean—as you may have heard. I am a slave of the brush, the pen, and the wastepaper-basket. If you will come with Mrs. Elstree to my studio I can show you one or two things that you might like to see.'
'Thank you,' she replied, without apparent interest in his studio. The young man was not accustomed to girls who showed no interest in him, and retired, chilled. Presently she heard his voice again. This time he was talking with Philippa. They were talking low in the doorway beside her, but she could not choose but hear.
'You recommended her—you?' said Philippa.