From out the Vasty Deep | Page 9

deep in her heart, she must have
admitted that such a name would have once suited him, she could now
gladly tell herself that "all that" lay far behind him. As we have seen,
he owed this change in his circumstances to a happy draw in the lottery
of marriage, a draw which has so often turned an adventurer of sorts
into a man of substance and integrity.
CHAPTER III
There is generally something a little dull and formal during the first
evening of a country house party; and if this is true when most of the
people know each other, how far more so is it the case with such a
party as that which was now gathered together at Wyndfell Hall!
Lionel Varick sat at one end of the long oak refectory table, Blanche
Farrow at the other. But though the table was far wider than are most
refectory tables (it was believed to be, because of its width, a unique
specimen), yet Blanche, very soon after they had sat down, told herself
that there was something to be said, after all, for the old-fashioned,
Victorian mahogany. Such a party as was this party would have sorted
themselves out, and really enjoyed themselves much more, sitting in
couples round an ordinary dining-table, than at this narrow, erstwhile
monastic board. Here they were just a little bit too near together--too

much vis-à-vis, so Blanche put it to herself with a dissatisfied feeling.
But soon things began going a little better. It had been her suggestion
that champagne should be offered with the soup, and already it was
having an effect. She was relieved to see that the oddly assorted men
and women about her were brisking up, and beginning to talk, even to
laugh, with one another.
On the host's right sat Miss Burnaby. She was at once quaint and
commonplace looking, the most noticeable thing about her being the
fact that she wore a cap. It was made of fine Mechlin lace threaded with
pale-blue ribbon, and, to the woman now looking at her, suggested an
interesting survival of the Victorian age. Quite old ladies had worn
such caps when she, Blanche Farrow, was a child!
The rest of Miss Burnaby's costume consisted of a high black silk dress,
trimmed with splendid point lace.
Miss Burnaby was evidently enjoying herself. She had taken a glass of
sherry, was showing no fear of her champagne, and had just helped
herself substantially to the delicious sole which was one of the special
triumphs of the French chef who had come down for a month to
Wyndfell Hall. He and Miss Farrow had discussed to-night's menu
together that morning, and he had spoken with modest enthusiasm of
this Sole à la Cardinal....
On the other side of the host sat Helen Brabazon.
Blanche looked at the late Mrs. Varick's one intimate friend with
critical interest. Yes, Miss Brabazon looked Somebody, though a
somewhat old-fashioned Somebody, considering that she was still quite
a young woman. She had good hair, a good complexion, and clear,
honest-looking hazel eyes; but not her kindest friends would have
called her pretty. What charm she had depended on her look of perfect
health, and her alert, intelligent expression of face. Miss Farrow, who
was well read, and, indeed, had a fine taste in literature, told herself
suddenly that Miss Brabazon was rather her idea of Jane Austen's
Emma! Her dark-blue velvet dress, though it set off her pretty skin, and

the complexion which was one of her best points, yet was absurdly old,
for a girl. Doubtless Miss Brabazon's gown had been designed by the
same dressmaker who had made her mother's presentation dress some
thirty years before. Such dressmakers are a quaint survival of the
Victorian age, and to them old-fashioned people keep on going from a
sense of loyalty, or perhaps because they are honestly ignorant of what
strides in beauty and elegance other dressmakers have made in the last
quarter of a century.
The hostess's eye travelled slowly round the table. How ludicrous the
contrast between Helen Brabazon and Bubbles Dunster! Yet they were
probably very much of an age. Bubbles, who looked such a child, must
now be--yes, not far from two-and-twenty.
Miss Farrow checked a sigh. She had been twenty-one herself--but
what a charming, distinguished, delightful twenty-one--when she had
formed one of a little group round the font of St. Peter's, Eaton Square.
She remembered what an ugly baby she had thought Bubbles, and how
she had been anything but pleased when someone present facetiously
observed that god-mother and godchild had very much the same type of
nose and ears and mouth!
To-night Bubbles was wearing an eccentric, and yet very becoming
garment. To the uninitiated it might have appeared fashioned out of an