too much absorbed in a critical point of her knitting to give vent to her offence in words at the moment.
"Pontisbury—he is a shade more difficult. There is no—no—how shall I put it?—no historical parallel to Pontisbury."
"Mr. Pontisbury would look well in any costume," Mrs. Lloyd-Evans told him resentfully. He is very good-looking, and what I always think so much more important for a man, so very big and tall."
"Precisely," replied, in a tone of almost childish pique, the Comte, who stood barely five foot six.
Mrs. Lloyd-Evans did not diminish the bitter wrath in his eyes by adding in characteristically tactful tones:
"I mean, of course, for a young man."
The Comte bowed ironically.
Stéphanie, with no hint in her tones of the distress she was feeling, interposed quietly:
"I see your point as to the difficulty of fitting any individual character to Mr. Pontisbury, I think. He would look well in various costumes, but"
"Exactly so," said the Comte as she paused. "He would make an admirable figure amongst a crowd of others: courtier,soldier—or flunkey," he added viciously. "But it is difficult to find any individuality for him."
"I cannot say that I agree with you," said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans coldly, and she told Henry an hour later that it was really quite odd to see how very jealous foreigners always were of an Englishman's good looks.
But even her strong disapproval of the undoubtedly foreign element that pervaded Villetswood could not dash the satisfaction with which Mrs. Lloyd-Evans viewed the progress of the affaire Pontisbury.
By the exercise of some self-control she refrained from mentioning the matter to Louis, knowing as she did that gentlemen very often rush in where the other and more tactful sex may fear to tread, and most characteristically conjecturing that Louis might precipitate a crisis by some ill-judged outburst of premature rejoicing. But she felt that the moment had come when Zella must indubitably feel the need of a mother's guidance.
She consequently repaired to her niece's room at the consecrated hour of eleven p.m.
Having determined to supply a mother's guidance on the subject of Zella's possible relations with Stephen Pontisbury, Mrs. Lloyd-Evans entered the room full of bright phrases about the projected fancy-dress dinner. "I should like you to look nice, dear," she said. '' Why
dress? One can so easily manipulate an evening dress a little."
The originality of this scheme failed to appeal to Zella. She answered vaguely and untruthfully:
"I'm afraid I haven't thought much about it, Aunt Marianne. It's sure to be amusing, though, isn't it? I might put on that blue shepherdess dress we found in the box upstairs; it ought to fit me."'
She was talking rather at random, conscious of the purpose for which Aunt Marianne had sought her, half anxious to avoid the subject that was in both their minds, and half eager for the gratification of her vanity by discussing it.
"I wonder what they'll all be," she said nervously.
"My only hope," declared Mrs. Lloyd-Evans, seating herself in an armchair, "is that that poor Frenchman won't try to be funny. It would be too painful."
By thus alluding to St. Algers she attained the double object of implying the slight contempt in which she held
not powder your hair and
link him as a foreigner, and of avoiding the pronunciation of his foreign and unpronounceable name.
"I don't suppose he will," abstractedly replied Zella, brushing out her soft thick hair, and subconsciously wondering what form of fancy dress would admit of her wearing it down her back.
"One can never tell, dear."
"Now, I should think that Mr. Pontisbury would look very well in almost any sort of poudré costume," said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans, feigning a passionate interest in the tassel of a cushion, and apparently under the impression that the word " now " would successfully bridge over any possible irrelevance in her remark.
"Oh, should you? That tassel is getting so ragged, it worries me every time I look at it."
She bent forward, also absorbed in the tassel.
Mrs. Lloyd-Evans put her head on one side for the purpose of better contemplation.
"I should almost take it off altogether, if I were you; the cushion would really look better without it. Yes."
Her head resumed its normal position on her shoulders.
"What was I saying? Oh yes! Stephen Pontisbury. He's good-looking, isn't he?"
"Very."
"I'm so glad you like him, dear," said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans, skilfully appearing to have deduced the information from the foregoing reply.
"I hoped you would, when I knew he was coming here. I said to myself, 'He's very good-looking, and just about the right age for a man; and he and Zella have a great deal in common, since he's fond of books and quite keen about all that sort of thing.' I know quite well that a man like Muriel's husband wouldn't have suited you, Zella dear, any more than you'd have satisfied him. He and Muriel have all the same tastes in common, and simply care about being out of doors and living in the country; and I'm sure they would never dream of discussing a book, either of them, as you or I might. Aunt Marianne, as you know, is very fond of reading, and in some ways it was a little disappointing that Muriel shouldn't care about it; but, after all, it's more natural at her age to care about riding and hunting and animals, and, as I always say, James has taken after me. And when you think how very happy Muriel is, I'm sure you've often wondered when your turn would come, dear. Of course one doesn't want to say anything indiscreet or premature in any way, but X thought perhaps, having no mother to advise you, you might like a little talk with Aunt Marianne."
"Yes," faltered Zella, her heart beating faster at the conviction that Stephen's admiration was evidently not only the work of her imagination.
"Well, darling," said Aunt Marianne more kindly than ever, and evidently enjoying herself, "I don't know, of course, whether you feel that you could really care about this man. Marriage is a most serious thing, and no one should be in a hurry to decide. But here is a good man, of a suitable age and family and everything, who evidently wishes to ask you to become his wife, and one can't help feeling you might be very happy together. After all, Zella dear," said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans with emotion, "marriage is the natural sphere of every woman."
"I think he was once in love with somebody else," said Zella, on whom the episode of the Scotch moors still weighed.
"He may have had boyish fancies, dear. All young men go through something of that sort," asserted her aunt sweepingly; "but it is all over long ago, you may depend upon it. Remember the line I am so fond of:
"Let the dead Past bury its dead!'"
"Do you really think he cares for me, Aunt Marianne?" asked Zella, looking out into the summer darkness. of the garden.
"Well, dear, you must judge for yourself. He certainly admires you a great deal, and you have spent hours talking together on the terrace.
