The stream flowed steadily, and towards half-past eleven resembled
a flood-tide.
Lady Cardington, Lady Manby, Mr. Bry, Sally Perceval had one by one
appeared, and Robin Pierce's dark head was visible mounting slowly amid a
throng of other heads of all shapes, sizes and tints.
Lady Holme was looking particularly well. She was dressed in black. Of
course black suits everybody. It suited her even better than most people,
and her gown was a triumph. She was going on to the Arkell House ball,
and wore the Holme diamonds, which were superb, and which she had
recently had reset. She was in perfect health, and felt unusually young
and unusually defiant. As she stood at the top of the staircase, smiling,
shaking hands with people, and watching Robin Pierce coming slowly
nearer, she wondered a little at certain secret uneasinesses--they could
scarcely be called tremors--which had recently oppressed her. How absurd
of her to have been troubled, even lightly, by the impertinent
proceedings of an American actress, a nobody from the States, without
position, without distinction, without even a husband. How could it
matter to her what such a little person--she always called Pimpernel
Schley a little person in her thoughts--did or did not do? As Robin came
towards her she almost--but not quite--wished that the speeches at the
dinner to Sir Jacob Rowley had not been so long as they evidently had
been, and that her husband were standing beside her, looking enormous and
enormously bored.
Pages:
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116