The ladies bow stiffly while Thelma responds to their prim salutation with easy grace.
"Sir Francis Lennox"--continues Lady Winsleigh, and there is something like a sneer in her smile, as that gentleman makes a deep and courtly reverence, with an unmistakable look of admiration in his sleepy tiger-brown eyes,--then she turns to Lord Winsleigh and adds in a casual way, "My husband!" Lord Winsleigh advances rather eagerly--there is a charm in the exquisite nobility of Thelma's face that touches his heart and appeals to the chivalrous and poetical part of his nature.
"Sir Philip and I have known each other for some years," he says, pressing her little fair hand cordially. "It is a great pleasure for me to see you to-night, Lady Errington--I realize how very much my friend deserves to be congratulated on his marriage!"
Thelma smiles. This little speech pleases her, but she does not accept the compliment implied to herself.
"You are very kind, Lord Winsleigh"--she answers; "I am glad indeed that you like Philip. I do think with you that he deserves every one's good wishes. It is my great desire to make him always happy."
A brief shadow crosses Lord Winsleigh's thoughtful brow, and he studies her sweet eyes attentively. Is she sincere? Does she mean what she says? Or is she, like others of her sex, merely playing a graceful part? A slight sigh escapes him,--absolute truth, innocent love, and stainless purity are written in such fair, clear lines on that perfect countenance that the mere idea of questioning her sincerity seems a sacrilege.
"Your desire is gratified, I am sure," he returns, and his voice is somewhat sad. "I never saw him looking so well. He seems in excellent spirits."
"Oh, for that!" and she laughs. "He is a very light-hearted boy! But once he would tell me very dreadful things about the world--how it was not at all worth living in--but I do think he must have been lonely. For he is very pleased with everything now, and finds no fault at all!"
"I can quite understand that!" and Lord Winsleigh smiles, though that shadow of pain still rests on his brow.
Mrs. Rush-Marvelle and the Van Clupps are listening to the conversation with straining ears. What strange person is this? She does not talk bad grammar, though her manner of expressing herself is somewhat quaint and foreign. But she is babyish--perfectly babyish! The idea of any well-bred woman condescending to sing the praises of her own husband in public! Absurd! "Deserves every-one's good wishes!"--pooh! her "great desire is to make him always happy!"--what utter rubbish!--and he is a "light-hearted boy!" Good gracious!--what next? Marcia Van Clupp is strongly inclined to giggle, and Mrs. Van Clupp is indignantly conscious that the Errington diamonds far surpass her own, both for size and lustre.