The Lighted Way | Page 8

There was
something almost triumphant in his manner.
"This is Mr. Chetwode, dear, of whom I was speaking to you," he said.
"Glad to see you, Chetwode," he added, with ponderous condescension.
The woman laughed softly as she held out her hand.
"Are you going to pretend that you were deaf, to forgive me and be
friends, Mr. Chetwode?" she asked, looking up at him. "One foggy day
my husband took me to Tooley Street, and I did not believe that
anything good could come out of the yellow fog and the mud and the
smells. It was my ignorance. You heard, but you do not mind? I am
sure that you do not mind?"
"Not a bit in the world," Arnold answered, still holding the hand which
she seemed to have forgotten to draw away, and smiling down into her
upturned face. "I was awfully sorry to overhear but you see I couldn't
very well help it, could I?"
"Of course you could not help it," she replied. "I am so glad that you
came and I hope that we can make it pleasant for you. I will try and
send you in to dinner with some one very charming."
She laughed at him understandingly as his lips parted and closed again
without speech. Then she turned away to welcome some other guests,
who were at that moment announced. Arnold stood in the background
for a few minutes. Presently she came back to him.
"Do you know any one here?" she asked.

"No one," he answered.
She dropped her voice almost to a whisper. Arnold bent his head and
listened with a curious pleasure to her little stream of words.
"It is a strange mixture of people whom you see here," she said, "a
mixture, perhaps, of the most prosaic and the most romantic. The Count
Sabatini, whom you see talking to my husband, is my brother. He is a
person who lives in the flood of adventures. He has taken part in five
wars, he has been tried more than once for political offenses. He has
been banished from what is really our native country, Portugal, with a
price set upon his head. He has an estate upon which nothing grows,
and a castle with holes in the roof in which no one could dwell. Yet he
lives--oh, yes, he lives!"
Arnold looked across at the man of whom she was speaking--gaunt and
olive-skinned, with deep-set eyes and worn face. He had still some
share of his sister's good looks and he held himself as a man of his race
should.
"I think I should like your brother," Arnold declared. "Will he talk
about his campaigns?"
"Perhaps," she murmured, "although there is one about which you
would not care to hear. He fought with the Boers, but we will not speak
of that. Mr. and Mrs. Horsman there I shall say nothing about. Imagine
for yourself where they belong."
"They are your husband's friends," he decided, unhesitatingly.
"You are a young man of great perceptions," she replied. "I am going to
like you, I am sure. Come, there is Mr. Starling standing by the door.
What do you think of him?"
Arnold glanced across the room. Mr. Starling was apparently a
middle-aged man--clean-shaven, with pale cheeks and somewhat
narrow eyes.

"An American, without a doubt," Arnold remarked.
"Quite right. Now the lady in the gray satin with the wonderful
coiffure--she has looked at you already more than once. Her name is
Lady Blennington, and she is always trying to discover new young
men."
Arnold glanced at her deliberately and back again at his hostess.
"There is nothing for me to say about her," he declared.
"You are wonderful," she murmured. "That is so exactly what one feels
about Lady Blennington. Then there is Lady Templeton--that fluffy
little thing behind my husband. She looks rather as though she had
come out of a toy shop, does she not?"
"She looks nice," Arnold admitted. "I knew--"
She glanced up at him and waited. Arnold, however, had stopped short.
"You have not yet told me," he said, "the name of the man who stands
alone near the door--the one with the little piece of red ribbon in his
coat?"
It seemed to him that, for some reason, the presence of that particular
person affected her. He was a plump little man, sleek and well-dressed,
with black hair, very large pearl studs, black moustache and imperial.
Mrs. Weatherley stood quite still for a moment. Perhaps, he thought,
she was listening to the conversation around them.
"The man's name is Rosario," she replied. "He is a financier and a man
of fashion. Another time you must tell me what you think of him, but I
warn you that it will not be so easy as