"Antoinette, I have something to say to you."
"So I ventured to gather from the fact that you have come to see me."
It was mid-May, and a fragrant breeze stirred the delicate curtains of
Lady Kingsmead's little drawing-room in Pont Street. There were flowers
everywhere, chiefly white lilacs, and the pale green and white chintz
and the quantities of light-hued pillows on the sofas (all of which
belonged, as yet, to Messrs. Liberty) made of the room a pleasant refuge
from the unusual heat outside. Lady Kingsmead, dressed in pale pink,
looked in the faint light very pretty as she leaned back in her deep
chair and played with the Persian cat.
Carron, upright on his small gilt chair, was pale and agitated, the
primitive feelings showing in his ravaged face looking in some way more
out of place, because he was exquisitely frock-coated and had a
fresh-blown tea-rose in his button-hole, than they would have done if he
had been shabby.
When Lady Kingsmead had spoken, he cleared his throat and began
hurriedly: "Antoinette--my--my wife is dead."
"Good Lord, Gerald, how you startled me! Is she really?"
"Yes, I--I saw her this morning."
"Drink?" asked Lady Kingsmead, pleasantly.