The young man looked at the singer and said nothing; but the anger in her
face was reflected in his, and mingled with a flaming of sympathy that
made his appearance almost startling. The white-haired woman clasped the
singer's hands and said, "Thank you, dearest!" in a thrilling voice, and
the little dark woman with the red fan cried out, "Viola, you simply pack
up Venice, carry it over the Continent and set it down here in London!"
Lady Holme frowned slightly.
"Thank you, thank you, you good-natured dears," she said with an attempt
at lightness. Then, hearing the thin rustle of a dress, she turned
sharply and cast an unfriendly glance at a mild young woman with a very
pointed nose, on which a pair of eyeglasses sat astride, who came meekly
forward, looking self-conscious, and smiling with one side of her mouth.
The man with the protruding jaw, who was Lord Holme, said to her, in a
loud bass voice:
"Thanks, Miss Filberte, thanks."
"Oh, not at all, Lord Holme," replied the accompanist with a sudden air
of rather foolish delight. "I consider it an honour to accompany an
amateur who sings like Lady Holme."
She laid a slight emphasis on the word "amateur."
Lady Holme suddenly walked forward to an empty part of the drawing-room.
The elderly man, whose name was Sir Donald Ulford, made a movement as if
to follow her, then cleared his throat and stood still looking after her.
Lord Holme stuck out his under jaw.
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