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Claire Robson, palpitant and eager, followed Edington's lead, but almost at the first moment of their rhythmic flight they came crashing into the overcoated bulk of a man cutting across the corner of the ballroom in an attempt at a swift exit.
But young Edington's presence soon set any uneasiness on that score at rest, and a place was evolved with deftness and despatch. The novelty of the situation to Claire was nothing compared with her matter-of-fact acceptance of it. She was neither self-conscious nor timid.
"I do declare you're the only woman in the room that looks presentable." But it was Edington's words to Stillman while they stood waiting for the hotel attendants to prepare the table that brought a quickened beat to her heart.
The effigy lies on an altar tomb, in episcopal attire, the head-pillow supported by two angels. Five bays farther on is Edington's chantry, but without effigy, as also are those of Fox and Langton. Of the seven chantries those of Fox and Beaufort are usually considered the most beautiful. The proud Cardinal Beaufort, founder of the "Almshouse of Noble Poverty" at St.
The conversation was low and not meant for her ears, but her senses were too sharpened to miss Edington's furtive words as he whispered to Stillman: "Where did ... amazing.... Miss Robson?" Claire did not catch the reply which must have also been something of a query, but she heard Edington continue.
She began to wonder whether Stillman would be swinging back to the city on a late boat ... or would the storm keep him at Edington's sister's home all night? She was in the midst of this speculation when Flint came into the room. "We'll eat early and have that off our minds," he announced. His manner was brusk and business-like again. Claire felt reassured.
The Tom Forsythes of Ross ... Edington's sister ... Ned Stillman! The sequence of ideas flashed through Claire's mind with flashing detachment. She leaned back in her seat and raised the wine-glass in obvious pretense to her lips. Flint was watching her keenly: an ugly gleam was in his eyes. "Well, Miss Robson, you might just as well make up your mind to finish that glass of wine first as last.
Claire sat with a little group composed of Mrs. Condor, Ned Stillman, a fashionable young man, Phil Edington, who frankly confessed boredom at all things musical except one-steps and fox-trots, and two or three artistic-looking souls who pretended to be quite shocked by young Edington's frankness. Conversation veered naturally to the subject of the war.
Sing's a wonder. I copped him from the Tom Forsythes. You know young Edington's in-laws. They've never quite forgiven me. Though they will come back and tuck away one of his dinners occasionally." Claire's mind closed nimbly over Flint's statement. "The the Tom Forsythes of Ross?" she asked. He nodded and tossed a glass of wine off in one gulp.
"I'm an awful fool, I suppose," Stillman smiled at Claire, "bringing the car out on a night like this. But the truth is Edington promised to catch this boat and I wanted him to try out the new plaything. I might have known he wouldn't make it. We're running over for dinner with Edington's sister."
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