He looked at her--warm and fragrant and radiant, in her soft, white gown, in her low lounging-chair, so near, so near to him--he looked at her glowing eyes, her red lips, her rich brown hair, at the white-and-rose of her skin, at the delicate blue veins in her forehead, at her fine white hands, clasped loosely together in her lap, at the flowing lines of her figure, with its supple grace and strength; and behind her, surrounding her, accessory to her, he was conscious of the golden August world, in the golden August weather--of the green park, and the pure sunshine, and the sweet, still air, of the blue lake, and the blue sky, and the mountains with their dark-blue shadows, of the long marble terrace, and the gleaming marble facade of the house, and the marble balustrade, with the jessamine twining round its columns. The picture was very beautiful--but something was wanting to perfect its beauty; and the name of the something that was wanting sang itself in poignant iteration to the beating of his pulses. And he longed and longed to tell her; and he dared not; and he hesitated....
And while he was hesitating, the pounding of hoofs and the grinding of carriage-wheels on gravel reached his ears--and so the situation was saved, or the opportunity lost, as you choose to think it. For next minute a servant appeared on the terrace, and announced Mrs. O'Donovan Florence.
And shortly after that lady's arrival, Peter took his leave.
“Well, Trixie, and is one to congratulate you?” asked Mrs. O'Donovan Florence.
“Congratulate me--? On what?” asked Beatrice.
“On what, indeed!” cried the vivacious Irishwoman. “Don't try to pull the wool over the eyes of an old campaigner like me.”
“I can't in the least think what you mean,” she said.
“Get along with you,” cried Mrs. O'Donovan Florence; and she brandished her sunshade threateningly. “On your engagement to Mr.--what's this his name is?--to be sure.”
She glanced indicatively down the lawn, in the direction of Peter's retreating tweeds.
Beatrice had looked blank. But now she looked--first, perhaps, for a tiny fraction of a second, startled--then gently, compassionately ironical.
“My poor Kate! Are you out of your senses?” she enquired, in accents of concern, nodding her head, with a feint of pensive pity.