We immediately huddled on our wraps, anxious to be gone and spare Sylvia
possible embarrassment, in spite of her protestations. As No. 2 led the
way to the door a gentleman crossed the hall from the card-room and
greeted Sylvia with easy familiarity. He was about forty, a rather
colourless blonde, with clean shaven face of the type so commonly seen
now that it might belong equally either to footman or master. His eyes
had a slantwise expression, but his dress was immaculate.
Strolling carelessly by the girl's side I heard him say, "I came to see
if you needed coaxing; some of the ladies are green over their losses, so
have a care for your eyes." Then he laughed at the wide-eyed look of
wonder she gave him as he begged a violet for his coat.
But Sylvia drew herself up, full an inch above him, and replied,
decidedly, but with perfect good nature, "No, those violets are a message
from Shakespeare,--one does not give such away."
"That is Monty Bell," said Miss Lavinia, tragically, as soon as the
door closed.
"Is there anything the matter with him except that his colouring is like
a summer squash?" I asked.
"He's been divorced by his wife, and it was her mother that was my
friend, not his, as Mrs. Latham hinted. I know the story; it makes me
shiver to see him near Sylvia." Then Miss Lavinia drew into a shell, in
which she remained until we reached home.
Meanwhile, as we drove in silence, I remembered that Richard's rubber
boots leaked, and I wondered if Martha Corkle would discover it, or if he
was paddling about getting his feet wet and bringing on a sore throat.
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