“Oh, yes! she is that,” Mrs. Farquharson granted. “She is all for le nouveau jeu. When I want to tease her I tell her she will find it le vieux jeu all the time, but she won't believe it.” Then suddenly, “Don't you think she is very pretty?”
“Pretty?” echoed Kent in some confusion. “Really, yes, I suppose she is. I hardly thought about it,” and leaning his body aside, so as to catch a distant glimpse of Clytie between the forms of the little circle of men round her, he added, “she is very pretty.”
And truly it was a fair picture that his eye fell upon. She was wearing a simple dress of ivory-coloured silk, falling in soft, straight folds to her feet. Her low-cut bodice was relieved only by a ruffle of old lace along the top, and the sole ornament she wore, a necklet of antique silver, brought out the delicate modelling of her shapely neck, as she sat talking animatedly, her chin pointing upwards. Her rich, vivid colouring compensated for any lack of relief in her costume. The intense blue of her eyes, the many glints in her auburn hair, twisted in a careless knot at the back of her small, shapely head, and kept in place by a broad silver arrow, would of themselves have supplied the place of any ornament.
“She is very pretty indeed—striking!” repeated Kent.
Mrs. Farquharson looked at him amusedly.
“You must be an original, Mr. Kent. Fancy knowing Clytie Davenant without thinking of her looks!”
“I am a great bear,” replied Kent. “My sister says so, and brothers and sisters generally speak the truth to each other. Of course I have thought of Miss Davenant's looks, in a way—admired her artistically; but I have never realised in her society that I have been talking to a pretty girl—one consciously so. She does not seem to expect you to be impressed with her looks. That's one thing that I like about her.”
Mrs. Farquharson carried on the conversation a little further and then directed it into other channels. She was pleased with Kent, and made a mental note to see more of him. A man who could like Clytie and yet not reflect upon her personal attractiveness was, as she had said, an oddity, and Mrs. Farquharson made oddities rather a speciality.
It was growing late and there was a perceptible thinning in the numbers of the guests. A few enthusiasts lingered fondly over the showcases, comparing their contents with specimens in their own or other collections. Among these was Treherne, by himself, deeply cogitative. He arrested Kent, who was passing by to speak to Clytie, whom he had scarcely seen during the evening, as he had felt bound to take an honest and practical interest in the proceedings. The question that Treherne desired Kent's help in solving was a knotty one, and the two men bent over the table absorbed in deciphering an obliterated obverse. When the matter was settled Kent looked around for Clytie, but she had already disappeared. There was nothing left for him to do but to take his leave.
“If you care for a Bohemian Sunday evening scramble, when everyone talks inconsequent nonsense—quite a different thing from to-night,” said Mrs. Farquharson, shaking hands—“we shall be very glad to see you.”