A Comedy of Masks | Page 8

ball, an occasion on which her
programme had speedily been besieged, and the _débutante_ marked as
dangerous by the observant mothers of marriageable sons and
daughters--after this important function, even Charles had begun to
regard his pretty sister with a certain amount of deference. He certainly
had reason to congratulate himself on having so attractive a young
person to pour out his coffee and compose his "buttonholes" before he
started for chambers in the morning. Eve was at an age when the
wild-rose tints of a complexion fostered by judicious walks and
schoolroom teas had not yet yielded to the baneful influence of late
dinners and the other orgies which society conducts in an
unduly-heated atmosphere. Her figure was still almost childishly slim,
but graceful, and straight enough to defy criticism in the ball-room or
the saddle. Her eyes were gray, with a curious, starry expression in
their depths, which always suggested that the smile which was so often
on her lips was quite ready to exaggerate the dimples in her cheeks. Her
hair was refractory, from her own point of view; but Lightmark found
the tangled brown masses, which she wore gathered into a loose knot

high at the back of her shapely head, entirely charming, and suggestive,
in a way, of one of Lancret's wood nymphs.
She could never bring herself to believe that her nose was pretty,
although in the seclusion of her chamber she had frankly criticised her
reflected image; and perhaps it was a trifle too small for most critics.
Still, her admirers declared that, especially in profile, it was
delightfully piquant, and vastly preferable to the uninteresting aquilines
which adorned the countenances of her mother and brother. A
provoking, childish, charming face, when all was said; it was not
wonderful that Lightmark would fain put it upon canvas. And, indeed,
so far as the young girl herself was concerned, he had already a
conditional promise. She had no objection whatever to make, provided
that Charles was first consulted; only she had no dress that would meet
the occasion. And when Lightmark protested that the airy white
garment, with here and there a suggestion of cream-coloured lace and
sulphur ribbons, which she was wearing, was entirely right, she scouted
the idea with scorn.
"This old frock, Mr. Lightmark," she exclaimed, with a pretty display
of disdain for his taste, "why, I've worn the old thing for months! No; if
Charles says I may have my portrait painted, I shall go straight off to
Madame Sophie, and then you may paint me and send me to the
Academy or Grosvenor in all my glory."
Lightmark had found it quite useless to protest, well as he knew that the
ordinary French milliner can be warranted to succeed in producing a
garment almost as unpaintable as a masculine black frock-coat.
On the afternoon of the day after Rainham's return to the dock,
Lightmark was caressing his fair moustache upon the doorstep of the
Sylvesters' house, No. 137, Park Street, West, a mansion of
unpretending size, glorious in its summer coat of white paint, relieved
only by the turquoise-blue tiles which surrounded the window-boxes,
and the darker blue of the railings and front-door. He was calling
ostensibly for the purpose of inquiring how Charles Sylvester liked the
frame which he had selected for the recently-finished portrait; really in
order to induce her brother to allow Eve to sit to him. Sounds as of

discussion floated down the wide staircase; and when the servant
opened the drawing-room door preparatory to announcing him,
Lightmark heard--and it startled him--a well-remembered voice
upraised in playful protest.
"No, 'pon my word, Mrs. Sylvester, my young scamp of a nephew
hasn't done you justice, 'pon my soul he hasn't."
At first he felt almost inclined to turn tail; though he had long been
aware that the Sylvesters were cognisant of his relationship to the
somewhat notorious old Colonel, and that they knew him, as everyone
did, he had never contemplated the possibility of meeting his uncle
there.
And when he had shaken hands in a bewildered manner with Mrs.
Sylvester and Eve, he perceived that his uncle was greeting him with an
almost paternal cordiality.
"Why, Dick, my boy, 'pon my soul I haven't seen you for an age! You
mustn't neglect your gouty old uncle, you know, Dick; when are you
going to paint his portrait, in review order, eh? Not until you've painted
Miss Eve here, I'll be bound."
The prodigal nephew needed all his by no means deficient stock of
nerve to enable him to present an unmoved countenance to this
unexpected attack of geniality. This, he thought, as he returned the
other's greeting with as great a semblance of ease as he could
muster--this was the uncle who had declined to recognise him