“She’s awfully pretty,” said Etta, glancing at Mrs. Fontaine.
“Passable,” said Tommy. “I don’t care for women who look like nuns.”
“She doesn’t look a bit like a nun,” she contradicted. “She’s talking and laughing like anything.”
Clementina said nothing, but studied the woman’s face. The portrait painter’s instinct arose. She would like to get her in the sitter’s chair and see what sort of a thing would come out on the canvas. The woman seemed to be the mistress of the feast. It was she who apportioned the seats and gave the orders; also it was she who led the animated conversation. The party seemed to be intimate.
“Whatever the crowd is, they’re having a good time,” said Tommy, “An unusual thing for my uncle.”
“Perhaps that’s because he’s crazy,” suggested Etta.
“Perhaps,” said Tommy. “I should like to knock some sanity into him, though,” he added ruefully; “especially as things are at present.”
“So should I,” remarked Clementina, and again she scrutinised the woman’s face.
“Perhaps his reason will come back when he sees Etta!” cried Tommy, laughing boyishly. “I’ll go and present her.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” said Clementina.