Part 13 (2/2)

You know I have always been--rather--disappointed. There are many pretty people: but to be beautiful is quite different.”

”That is because you are so unsophisticated, my dear. You don't understand that beauty in society means a fas.h.i.+on, and not much more. I have seen a quant.i.ty of beauties in my day. How they came to be so, n.o.body knew; but there they were, and we all bowed down to them. This woman, however, was very pretty, there was no doubt about it,” said Lady Randolph, with reluctant candour. ”I don't know what she may be now. She was enough to turn any man's head when she was young--or even a woman's--who ought to have known better.”

”Do you think then, Aunt Randolph, that women don't admire pretty people?” It is to be feared that Lucy asked for the sake of making conversation, which it is sometimes necessary to do.

”I think that men and women see differently--as they always do,” said Lady Randolph. She was rather fond of discriminating between the ideas of the s.e.xes, as many ladies of a reasonable age are. ”There is a gentleman's beauty, you know, and there is a kind of beauty that women love. I could point out the difference to you better if the specimens were before us; but it is a little difficult to describe. I rather think we admire expression, you know. What men care for is flesh and blood. We like people that are good--that is to say, who have the air of being good, for the reality doesn't by any means follow. Perhaps I am taking too much credit to ourselves,” said the old lady, ”but that is the best description I can hit upon. We like the interesting kind--the pensive kind--which was the fas.h.i.+on when I was young. Your great, fat, golden-haired, red and white women are gentlemen's beauties; they don't commend themselves to us.”

”And is Madame di Forno-Populo,” said Lucy, in her usual elaborate way, ”of that kind?”

”Oh! my dear, she is just a witch,” Lady Randolph said. ”It does not matter who it is, she can bring them to her feet if she pleases!” Then she seemed to think she had gone too far, and stopped herself: ”I mean when she was young; she is young no longer, and I dare say all that has come to an end.”

”It must be sad to grow old when one is like that,” said Lucy, with a look of sympathetic regret.

”Oh, you are a great deal too charitable, Lucy!” said the old lady: and then she stopped short, putting a sudden restraint upon herself, as if it were possible that she might have said too much; then after a while she resumed: ”As you are in such a heavenly frame of mind, my dear, and disposed to think so well of her, there is just one word of advice I will give you--don't allow yourself to get intimate with this lady. She is quite out of your way. If she liked, she could turn you round her little finger. But it is to be hoped she will not like; and, in any case, you must remember that I have warned you. Don't let her, my dear, make a catspaw of you.”

”A catspaw of me!” Lucy was amused by these words--not offended, as so many might have been--perhaps because she felt herself little likely to be so dominated; a fact that the much older and more experienced woman by her side was quite unaware of. ”But,” she said, ”Tom would not have invited her, Aunt Randolph, if he had thought her likely to do that--indeed, how could he have been such great friends with her if she had not been nice as well as pretty? You forget there must always be that in her favour to me.”

”Oh, Tom!” cried Lady Randolph with indignation. ”My dear Lucy,” she added after a pause, with subdued exasperation, ”men are the most unaccountable creatures! Knowing him as I do, I should have thought she was the very last person--but how can we tell? I dare say the idea amused him. Tom will do anything that amuses him--or tickles his vanity.

I confess it is as you say, very, very difficult to account for it; but he has done it. He wants to show off a little to her, I suppose; or else he---- There is really no telling, Lucy. It is the last thing in the world I should have thought of; and you may be quite sure, my dear,” she added with emphasis, ”she never would have been invited at all if he had expected me to be here when she came.”

Lucy did not make any answer for some time. Her face, which had kept its gaiety and radiance, grew grave, and when they had driven back towards the hall for about ten minutes in silence, she said quietly ”You do not mean it, I am sure; but do you know, Aunt Randolph, you are trying to make me think very badly of my husband; and no one has ever done that before.”

”Oh, your husband is just like other people's husbands, Lucy,” cried the elder lady impatiently. Then, however, she subdued herself, with an anxious look at her companion. ”My dear, you know how fond I am of Tom: and I know he is fond of you; he would not do anything to harm you for the world. I suppose it is because he has such a prodigious confidence in you that he thinks it does not matter; and I don't suppose it does matter. The only thing is, don't be over intimate with her, Lucy; don't let her fix herself upon you when you go to town, and talk about young Lady Randolph as her dearest friend. She is quite capable of doing it.

And as for Tom--well, he is just a man when all is said.”

Lucy did not ask any more questions. That she was greatly perplexed there is no doubt, and her first fervour of affectionate interest in Tom's friend was slightly damped, or at least changed. But she was more curious than ever; and there was in her mind the natural contradiction of youth against the warnings addressed to her. Lucy knew very well that she herself was not one to be twisted round anybody's little finger. She was not afraid of being subjugated; and she had a prejudice in favour of her husband which neither Lady Randolph nor any other witness could impair. The drive home was more silent than the outset. Naturally, the cold increased as the afternoon went on, and the Dowager shrunk into her furs, and declared that she was too much chilled to talk. ”Oh how pleasant a cup of tea will be,” she said.

Lucy longed for her part to get down from the carriage and walk home through the village, to see all the cottage fires burning, and quicken the blood in her veins, which is a better way than fur for keeping one's self warm. When they got in, it was exciting to think that perhaps the stranger was coming down to tea; though that, as has been already said, was a hope in which Lucy was disappointed. Everything was prepared for her reception, however--a sort of throne had been arranged for her, a special chair near the fire, shaded by a little screen, and with a little table placed close to it to hold her cup of tea. The room was all in a ruddy blaze of firelight, the atmosphere delightful after the cold air outside, and all the little party a little quiet, thinking that every sound that was heard must be the stranger.

”She must have been very tired,” Lucy said sympathetically.

”I dare say,” said Lady Randolph, ”she thinks a dinner dress will make a better effect.”

Lucy looked towards her husband almost with indignation, with eyes that asked why he did not defend his friend. But, to be sure, Sir Tom could not judge of their expression in the firelight, and instead of defending her he only laughed. ”One general understands another's tactics,” he said.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE VISITORS.

Sir Tom paid his wife a visit when she was in the midst of her toilette for dinner. He came in, and looked at her dress with an air of dissatisfaction. It was a white dress, of a kind which suited Lucy very well, and which she was in the habit of wearing for small home parties, at which full dress was unnecessary. He looked at her from head to foot, and gave a little pull to her skirt with a doubtful air. ”It doesn't sit, does it?” he said; ”can't you pin it, or something, to make it come better?”

This, it need not be said, was a foolish piece of ignorance on Sir Tom's part, and as Miss Fletcher, Lucy's maid, thought, ”just like a man.”

Fletcher was for the moment not well-disposed towards Sir Tom. She said--”Oh no, Sir Thomas, my lady don't hold with pins. Some ladies may that are all for effect; but my lady, that is not her way.”

Sir Tom felt that these words inclosed a dart as sharp as any pin, and directed at himself; but he took no notice. He walked round his wife, eyeing her on every side; and then he gave a little pull to her hair as he had done to her dress. ”After all,” he said, ”it is some time since you left school, Lucy. Why this simplicity? I want you to look your best to-night.”

”But, dear Tom,” said Lucy, ”you always say that I am not to be over-dressed.”

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