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She spoke to him sometimes in Lady Holme's singing, sometimes in an expression in her eyes when she was serious, sometimes even in a bodily attitude. For Robin, half fantastically, put faith in the eloquence of line as a revealer of character, of soul. But she did not speak to him in Lady Holme's conversation.
"Yes, I sent Leo Ulford the latch-key," she said. "You needn't ask. I sent it, and told him to come to-night. D'you know why?" Lord Holme's face grew scarlet. "Because you're a " She stopped him before he could say the irrevocable word. "Because I mean to have the same liberty as the man I've married," she said. "I asked Leo Ulford here, and I intended you should find him here." "You didn't.
Wolfstein, with an undercurrent of laughter. It was very like Lady Holme's look when she was singing. Robin Pierce saw it and pressed his lips together. At this moment the crowd shifted and left a gap through which Lady Holme immediately glided towards Ashley Greaves.
Lady Holme saw it in the glass, dropped her hand, and said: "C'est tout, Josephine. Vous pouvez vous en aller." "Merci, miladi." She went out quietly. Two or three minutes passed. Then Lord Holme's deep bass voice was audible, humming vigorously: "Ina, Ina, oh, you should have seen her! Seen her with her eyes cast down.
But all this was only the foundation upon which she based, as it were, the structure of her delicate revenge. That consisted in a really admirable hint it could not be called more of Lady Holme's characteristic mannerisms.
Bry, unaware that she was still thinking about Miss Filberte, murmured to Lady Cardington: "Evidently we are in for a song about Jael with the butter in the lordly dish omitted." Then an expression of sorrowful youth stole into Lady Holme's eyes, changed her mouth to softness and her cheeks to curving innocence.
And this absence of jewels, and her black gown, made her skin look almost startlingly white, if possible whiter than Lady Holme's. She smiled quietly as she mounted the stairs, as if she were wrapt in a pleasant, innocent dream which no one knew anything about. Amalia Wolfstein was certainly a splendid a too splendid foil to her.
"Yes." "May I ask why?" "Well, would you undertake to vouch for Lady Holme's understanding I mean for the infinite subtlety of it?" Sir Donald began to walk on once more. "I cannot find it in her conversation," he said. "Nor can I, nor can anyone." "She is full of personal fascination, of course." "You mean because of her personal beauty?" "No, it's more than that, I think. It's the woman herself.
But I say that there is spirit in lust, in hunger, in everything. When I want a drink my spirit wants it. Viola Holme's spirit a flame that will be blown out at death takes part in her love for that great brute Holme. And yet she's one of the most pronounced egoists in London." "Do you care to tell us any reason you may have for saying so?" said Sir Donald.
Better not let him, though. Holme's a jealous devil." "Totally without reason," said Pierce, with a touch of bitterness. "No doubt. It's part of his Grand Turk nature. He ought to possess a Yildiz. He's out of place in London where marital jealousy is more unfashionable than pegtop trousers." He buried himself in his glass. Sir Donald rose to go.
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