Hildegarde of the fireplace and of the garden had been a girl lacking only the opportunity to be luxurious.
Well, whatever she was, he loved her. Yet he saw little hope for the future. In spite of her warm friendliness, he knew that she cared nothing for him. And besides Crispin there were others now in the field—Bob Gresham's manner was unmistakable. And Bob could make any woman the fashion.
It was after supper, that Merry saw Hildegarde as a green flame among the dancers. A will-o'-the-wisp? Like Carew? Or an unquenchable torch of inspiration?
It was after supper, too, that Carew sat in a niche on the wide stairway and talked to an abbess in gray with a ripple of red beads hanging from her belt.
"How austere you look, Ethel."
"I need to be to offset your abandon, Louis."
"But you are not really austere."
She smiled at him. "Perhaps you don't know the real me."
It was provocative. And she was very pretty with the soft folds of white linen concealing the lines of her throat and forehead; bringing out the fine darkness of her eyes, the delicate aristocracy of nose and chin.
"What is the real 'me,' Ethel?"
She ran the beads through her fingers like a rosary. At the end, in place of a crucifix, was a ball of red roses. She detached one of the roses and inhaled its perfume, looking at him above it with those dark smiling eyes.
By Jove, she was pretty. "Give me the rose," he said.
