Adam Johnstones Son | Page 8

be much nicer to spend the evening on the terrace, and
that it was a pity that they could not dine out of doors because it would
be far too cool. Then the lady in white and the man called Brook began
to walk furiously up and down in the fading light, while the lady talked
very fast in a low voice, except when she was passing within earshot of
some of the others, and the man looked straight before him, answering
occasionally in monosyllables.
Then there was more confusion in the hotel, and the Russian invalid
expressed his opinion to the two English old maids, with whom he

fraternised, that dinner would be an hour late, thanks to their
compatriots. But they assumed an expression appropriate when
speaking of the peerage, and whispered that the yacht must belong to
the Duke of Orkney, who, they had read, was cruising in the
Mediterranean, and that the Duke was probably the big man in grey
clothes who had a gold cigarette case. But in all this they were quite
mistaken. And their repeated examinations of the hotel register were
altogether fruitless, because none of the party had written their names
in it. The old maids, however, were quite happy and resigned to waiting
for their dinner. They presently retired to attempt for themselves what
stingy nature had refused to do for them in the way of adornment, for
the dinner was undoubtedly to be an occasion of state, and their eyes
were to see the glory of a lord.
The party sat together at one end of the table, which extended the
whole length of the high and narrow vaulted hall, while the guests
staying in the hotel filled the opposite half. Most of the guests were
more subdued than usual, and the party from the yacht seemed noisy by
contrast. The old maids strained their ears to catch a name here and
there. Clare and her mother talked little. The Russian invalid put up a
single eyeglass, looked long and curiously at each of the new comers in
turn, and then did not vouchsafe them another glance. The German
family criticised the food severely, and then got into a fierce discussion
about Bismarck and the Pope, in the course of which they forgot the
existence of their fellow-diners, but not of their dinner.
Clare could not help glancing once or twice at the couple that had
attracted her attention, and she found herself wondering what their
relation to each other could be, and whether they were engaged to be
married. Somebody called the lady in white "Mrs. Crosby." Then
somebody else called her "Lady Fan"--which was very confusing.
"Brook" never called her anything. Clare saw him fill his glass and look
at Lady Fan very hard before he drank, and then Lady Fan did the same
thing. Nevertheless they seemed to be perpetually quarrelling over little
things. When Brook was tired of being bullied, he calmly ignored his
companion, turned from her, and talked in a low tone to a dark woman
who had been a beauty and was the most thoroughly well-dressed of

the extremely well-dressed party. Lady Fan bit her lip for a moment,
and then said something at which all the others laughed--except Brook
and the advanced beauty, who continued to talk in undertones.
To Clare's mind there was about them all, except Brook, a little dash of
something which was not "quite, quite," as the world would have
expressed it. In her opinion Lady Fan was distinctly disagreeable,
whoever she might be--as distinctly so as Brook was the contrary. And
somehow the girl could not help resenting the woman's way of treating
him. It offended her oddly and jarred upon her good taste, as something
to which she was not at all accustomed in her surroundings. Lady Fan
was very exquisite in her outward ways, and her speech was of the
proper smartness. Yet everything she did and said was intensely
unpleasant to Clare.
The Bowrings and the regular guests finished their dinner before the
yachting party, and rose almost in a body, with a clattering of their light
chairs on the tiled floor. Only the English old maids kept their places a
little longer than the rest, and took some more filberts and half a glass
of white wine, each. They could not keep their eyes from the party at
the other end of the table, and their faces grew a little redder as they sat
there. Clare and her mother had to go round the long table to get out,
being the last on their side, and they were also the last to reach the door.
Again the young girl felt that strong desire to turn her head and look
back at Brook and Lady Fan.