"The deuce you did!... Killed the fatted calf, eh?... Well, where is he now?"
"He went to walk with John--John took a great fancy to him."
"He did?" Laurence's face changed subtly, relaxed. "Well, that's something.... But, say--it's awkward about Lavery being here. I wish I'd known."
"I might have telegraphed, but I didn't know where you were," said Mary.
"You can always reach me at the hotel," he said sharply.
"I wish to the deuce Lavery wasn't here," he muttered.
"I wouldn't care about that." There was an edge in Mary's tone, but with an effort she eliminated that touch of criticism. "Your father can take care of himself--he's quite as much a gentleman as Lavery."
Laurence turned round, a hairbrush in either hand, and gazed at her.
"He's presentable, really?... I shouldn't have expected it."
"He isn't very well dressed," said Mary quietly. "But you needn't be at all ashamed of him. He's--there's something about him--well, I can't describe it, but he has much better manners than Mr. Lavery."
"Oh, you always have a knife up your sleeve for poor old Horace," said Laurence, turning back again to the mirror and brushing vigorously. "I'll be down in ten minutes--but I'd rather see him alone first, you know. Do you suppose he's come back?"
In the mirror Laurence's eyes dwelt on her tall figure and white face shadowy in the background. He said slowly with an undertone of pain:
Where Laurence sat was the head of the table; he dominated all by his vivid colour, his intense physical vitality, and he kept the talk going easily. He and Lavery were in evening dress, rather dandified, with soft plaited shirt-bosoms and diamond studs. Old Mr. Carlin, sitting between Timothy and John, appeared perfectly at ease in his well-brushed suit. His bright grey eyes contemplated the scene and the company with an aloof and philosophic interest.
Mary, in her usual dress for the evening, of plain black velvet, cut square at the neck, and with long close-fitting sleeves, was beautiful, as Laurence had said and Lavery's long gaze recognized. She wore no ornaments except a pair of heavy earrings of dull gold filagree. The light from the big cut-glass chandelier over the table fell unshaded upon her, bringing out the pale copper colour of her rippling hair and the whiteness of her skin. It emphasized too the hollows in her cheeks and at her temples, the lines of the forehead and of the neck below the ear. Her face, as in her youth, was like a mask; but now it was a mask of sorrow. Calm and unmoved in expression, it was yet an abstract of sad experience.