It was her delight to criticize her fairer sisters—the flaws in their beauty; the tricks which helped them to be beautiful; their affectations; their vanities; their bad taste.
“Did you ever see three young women ‘fagotées’ like those Marchant girls?” she murmured, in a low, clear voice, which she had cultivated for speaking evil of people near at hand. “That blue girl—that red girl! I don’t know which is worse! The blue frock is an inch and a half shorter on one side than on the other—an advantage, as it shows off the blue slipper, which doesn’t match the frock, and the blue stocking, which doesn’t match the slipper. But the red girl! Please notice the lacing of the red bodice. I assure you the girl isn’t humpbacked, though that bodice certainly suggests deformity.”
“How observant you are, Miss Green; and with what a keen eye for the infinitesimal!”
“I am looking at their chaperon now—the enormous person in dyed crimson satin. It must have been her wedding-gown ages ago—a sweet silver-grey. You don’t call that lady infinitesimal, I hope?”
“Physically large, perhaps—but, from your mental standpoint, microscopic. Now, confess, Miss Green, don’t you think these people infinitely insignificant, simply because they happen not to be rich?”
“I think them immensely amusing. One sees such people only at public balls in the heart of the country. That is why public balls are such fun. Do look at the glass stars in the tallest Miss Marchant’s hair! Did you ever see anything so absurd?”
“What does it matter whether they are glass or diamonds of the purest water? All the gems that were ever ground at Amsterdam could not make her more like a beautiful sylph—Undine—Titania—what you will.”
“Your comparisons are not flattering to the young lady’s intellect. Undine was mindless and soulless; Titania—if Shakespeare knew anything about her—was a silly little person who fell desperately in love with a donkey.”
Their waltz was over, but Miss Green wanted tea, or an ice, or a change of atmosphere—anything which would retain Vansittart in attendance upon her as long as possible. She kept him sitting by her side while she sipped her tea, and ridiculed the people who came in and out of the tearoom. She kept him in bondage while Mr. Tivett conducted Eve Marchant to the buffet, and talked and laughed with her gaily as she ate her ice. How prettily she ate that pink ice—with such a graceful turn of the delicate wrist! Vansittart had leisure to study every line of head and figure, while Miss Green prattled in his ear. He gave a little automatic laugh now and then, feeling that the lady meant him to be amused. Miss Marchant was a long time eating her ice, and was evidently interested in Mr. Tivett’s conversation. Vansittart watched her dreamily, not more jealous of Tivett than if he had seen her a few years earlier, playing with her doll; but just as she had resigned the empty ice-plate, and was moving towards the door, a man in a hunt coat met and stopped her with a semi-authoritative air that made Vansittart’s blood rush angrily to his brow, almost as if the man had insulted him.
“You are saving some dances for me, I hope, Miss Marchant?” said the unknown, with an easy, offhand manner.
“I don’t know,” faltered Eve. “I mean I think I am engaged for a good many waltzes—as many as I shall care to dance.”
“Let me see,” taking her programme out of her hand. “Oh, you fair deceiver! Why, you might answer about this programme as Olivia did about her history—‘A blank, my Lord.’ I shall write myself against number seven—the dear old Manola—and eleven—a Waldteufel waltz—and, let me see, shall we say fifteen?”
The man was good-looking, dark-haired and dark-eyed, well set up, showing to advantage in the hunt coat—a man likely to be in request at a dance; yet it was evident that Eve Marchant wanted to avoid him. She looked pained and even angry at his persistence.
“My engagements are not upon that card,” she said; “and I am sure you must have a great many people with whom you ought to dance—sooner than with me.”
“That’s my business. I have set my heart upon at least three dances with you.”
“Then I am sorry to disappoint you; I am engaged for all those numbers.”
“But you are free for others? Tell me which.”
“That is Mr. Sefton, of Chadleigh,” said Miss Green, confidentially. “Rather handsome, ain’t he? But not good form. He is not a favourite in his own neighbourhood; but he and Miss Marchant are evidently upon very friendly terms.”
Eve had left the tearoom with Mr. Tivett, closely followed by Mr. Sefton, and Vansittart sat looking after the three retreating figures till they were absorbed in the crowd that filled the dancing-room.
“Did you think so?” he said coldly. “It seemed to me that the gentleman was not a favourite with the young lady.”
“If you had seen them on Christmas Eve on the ice you would have a very different opinion. He was teaching her the outside edge. He was devoted, and she seemed delighted. He would be a great catch for her; but I’m afraid he’s too much a man of the world to be trapped by a pretty face. He will look higher than Miss Marchant.”
“What and who is he?”
“Oh, he belongs to an old Sussex family, and has a fine place on the other side of Blackdown. I am told he is clever; but he is not nice, somehow. People don’t seem to trust him. And there are ugly stories about him, I believe, stories that are not told to ladies, but which have made him
