It was a most
uncharacteristic reception, for she was of a gracious and engaging
personality and a stately type of beauty. She was tall and graceful,
about thirty years of age, in full bloom, so to speak, extremely fair,
the delicacy of her complexion enhanced by the contrast with her dark
hair worn _en pompadour_. Her gown of dark red cloth, elaborately
braided and with narrow borders of otter fur, had a rich depth of color
which accorded with her sumptuous endowments.
The role of cordial hostess she was wont to play with especial
acceptability, but now she had lost its every line, its most trivial
patter. She said not one word as Bayne clasped her hand with the
conventional greeting, but only looked at him with her hazel eyes at once
remonstrant, pleading, compassionate.
The moment of vantage, short as it was, afforded by the precedence of her
hostess in the matter of salutation, gave Mrs. Royston the opportunity to
catch her breath and find her voice. She had not seen this man since,
five years ago, he had left her home her expectant bridegroom.
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