Part 13 (2/2)
DEADLY PAIR.
A month had elapsed.
In the exquisite little drawing-room of a first-floor flat in Victoria Street, Westminster, where tender lights filtered through the golden shadows of silken hangings, sat Valerie. Her att.i.tude was one of repose--deep, unruffled. From the crown of her handsome head to the tip of her dainty shoe she was perfect. With her eyes fixed seriously upon the ceiling, she sat crouching in her chair with all the abandon of a dozing tigress. The room, a glowing blaze of colour, and carpeted with rich skins, was a fitting jungle. With all a woman's cunning she had chosen a tea-gown of pale heliotrope silk, which, falling in artistic folds, gave sculptural relief to her almost angular outline, and diffused a faint breath of violets about her.
She gave a stifled yawn and drew a heavy breath, as one does when encountering some obstacle that must be overcome.
”I wonder whether he will come?” she exclaimed, aloud.
As she uttered these words the door opened, and Nanette, her discreet French maid, entered.
”M'sieur Trethowen,” she announced.
He followed quickly on the girl's heels, with a fond, glad smile.
”I must really apologise, my dear Valerie. Have I kept you waiting?” he cried breathlessly, at the same time bending and kissing her lightly.
She gave her shapely shoulders a slight shrug, but watched him with contemplative eyes as he rushed on.
”I thought I should be unable to take you out to-day, as I was detained in the City upon business. However, I've brought the dog-cart round.
The drive will do you good, for the weather is superb.”
”Indeed,” she said languidly. Putting out a lazy, bejewelled hand, she drew back the curtain that hid the window, and gazed out upon the bright afternoon. ”Yes, it is lovely,” she a.s.sented. ”But you must excuse me to-day, Hugh. I am not feeling well.”
”Why, what's the matter?” he asked in alarm, noticing for the first time that there was a restless, haggard expression about her eyes.
”Oh, it's nothing,” she replied with a smile; ”really nothing. A mere headache. I shall be better to-morrow.”
”Can I do anything for you?”
”No, thanks,” she answered, motioning him to a seat beside her.
”No, no, at your feet; Valerie--always at your feet,” the young man replied gayly, throwing himself down before her, and flinging his head back in order to gaze more intently into the dark, brilliant eyes above him.
Keeping time with a heavy finger, he sang, in a not unmusical baritone, two lines of an old French love song:
”Non, ma jeunesse n'est pas morte, Il n'est pas mort ton souvenir.”
But his fair companion was almost oblivious to the importance of the burden of his melody. With her little pointed chin against the rose of her palm, she sat lost in a world of reverie.
”Do you ever see Jack Egerton now?” she asked suddenly.
He smiled, accustomed to her wilful wanderings.
”Yes, frequently,” he said in turn. ”We have known one another so long, that I look upon him as my best friend.”
”Your best friend!” she echoed. ”Ah! that is to be regretted. Then you could not have known him when he was a student in Paris.”
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