The day passed in elegant conversation, as is the way with the landed
gentry all the world over. Lord Paramour and Miss Lyon-West, beautiful
in vermilion _organdie_, went for a walk in the afternoon; but on their
return Mrs. Lyon-West observed on her daughter’s cheeks none of those
signs of pretty confusion which denote a happy consummation; they were
still the pale cheeks of a young lady of fashion; they were unmantled.
Now it has frequently been said of Mrs. Lyon-West that she is
indiscreet; but never that she is not brave.
That night, when the gentlemen had joined the ladies, and Mrs. Custard
had retired, saying she had to go to Paris early in the morning as she
was very short of long gloves, Mrs. Lyon-West addressed herself to Lord
Paramour brightly:
“I hope,” she said, “that you enjoyed your walk in the rose garden?”
“Enchanting!” said Lord Paramour. “Enchanting.”
“I’m _so_ glad you liked it,” breathed Mrs. Lyon-West; and she looked at
him steadfastly, the brave woman. “Well, Lord Paramour?”
“Ah,” said Lord Paramour thoughtfully.
She created a diversion by requiring a light for her cigarette, which
Mr. Soda, with his well-known _galanterie_, instantly supplied.
“The only thing I’m not sure about,” whispered Lord Paramour, “is
whether I like her nose. Sorry, I’m sure.”