"Superb! I don't know when I have seen finer, Tom, really!"
"Ah!" said Tom, complacently handling his left whisker. "And," he added,
after a moment or two, "and thereby hangs a tale!"
It was after dinner--after one of Tom Gainsborough's snug, inimitable
little dinners; only we three--Tom, his wife, and myself: and a couple
of negro attendants, as well trained and less overpowering than the best
of the native English stock; and that charming dining-room, just big
enough, just cool enough, soft-carpeted, clear-walled, and the steady
white radiance of the argand burners descending upon the damask
tablecloth, crowned with fruits and flowers; and an agreeable shadow
over the rest of the room, so that those sable servitors could perform
their noiseless evolutions unseen; and a pervading sense of unconscious
good-breeding and unobtrusive wealth; and----but I will not speak of the
china; I will not descant upon Tom's wines; I don't wish to make other
people envious. Only it was all inexpressibly good, from fascinating
Mrs. Gainsborough and her diamonds, down.
I felt a peculiar interest in Mrs. Gainsborough, because, in addition
to her other attractions, she was a countrywoman of mine--that is to
say, an American. She was brunette, slender, graceful; with a weird
expression of the eyes under straight black eyebrows, an expression
which somehow suggested mesmerism--or perhaps a liability on her part
to be mesmerised; faultless throat and shoulders; and hands and wrists
that she could talk with, almost. Where had Tom found her? I never had
thought of asking him; she was a Virginian very likely--an "F. F. V.";
and they had doubtless met upon the Continent. This was the first
occasion on which I had seen her in her diamonds. Indeed, Tom and she
had only been married a year or two, and had been settled in that
_bijou_ residence of theirs scarcely six months; and this was but my
third or fourth dinner there. Well, her diamonds became her, and she
them; they somehow matched that weird light in her eyes; and I told Tom
as much when, after dinner, she withdrew and left us over our wine.
"And thereby hangs a tale," repeated he, thoughtfully reaching his hand
towards the decanter, and filling my glass and his own.
Now, it seemed to me entirely in accordance with young Mrs.
Gainsborough's "style" that there should have been something odd and
romantic in the circumstances of her first acquaintance with Tom, and
that diamonds should be mixed up with it. Therefore I was more than
willing to give ear to the strange story which he proceeded to relate to
me. Imagine the servants dismissed, a fresh lump of coal in the grate,
the decanter between us, and our legs and elbows disposed in the most
comfortable manner possible. Then, this is the story.