Gabriel seated himself on the sofa beside Ophelia Gusset.
She was shading her face from the fire with her fan, her shoulders gleaming white through a web of lace. The red flowers at her breast shone like stars to pilot desire. A mesmeric atmosphere seemed to encircle her; her large eyes were languorous and alluring.
“You seem in queenly isolation,” said the man, noting almost unconsciously the white sweep of her shoulders. She smiled at him, and seemed none too sorry to surrender her solitude into his keeping.
“Elderly ladies are really too trying,” she said to him. “I never met such extraordinary rustics as Saltire produces.”
“Mrs. Mince and Mrs. Marjoy have been conversing for your benefit? A lecture on infant underclothing or the darning of stockings?”
“Far worse, I assure you. Missionary incidents from The Reaper; a dissertation on pickling onions; certain remarks from Mr. Mince’s last sermon.”
“And Mrs. Marjoy?”
“What does Mrs. Marjoy usually talk about?”
“Herself and her children and the vices of her friends.”
“Dear creature! Blanche had a thrust at her before you joined us.”