As if they had been talking of nothing but dress before, Mrs. Erwin asked: “Do you think I look better in this black mexicaine, or would you wear your écru?”
“I think you look very well in this. But why—He isn't going to propose to you, I hope?”
“I must have on something decent to receive him in. What time does the train from Trieste get in?”
“At three o'clock.”
“It's one, now. There's plenty of time, but there isn't any too much. I'll go and get Lydia ready. Or perhaps you'll tap on her door, Henshaw, and send her here. Of course, this is the end of her voice,—if it is the end.”
“It's the end of having an extraordinarily pretty girl in the house. I don't at all like it, you know,—having her whisked away in this manner.”
Mrs. Erwin refused to let her mind wander from the main point. “He'll be round as soon as he can, after he arrives. I shall expect him by four, at the latest.”
“I fancy he'll stop for his dinner before he comes,” said Mr. Erwin.
“Not at all,” retorted his wife, haughtily. And with his going out of the room, she set her face in a resolute cheerfulness, for the task of heartening Lydia when she should appear; but it only expressed misgiving when the girl came in with her yachting-dress on. “Why, Lydia, shall you wear that?”
Lydia swept her dress with a downward glance.