"You have not seen your sister lately," he remarked. "I believe that
you would find her in some respects curiously altered. I have never in
my life been so much puzzled by any one as by your sister. Something
has changed her tremendously."
Annabel looked at him curiously.
"Do you mean in looks?" she asked.
"Not only that," he answered. "In Paris your sister appeared to me to
be a charming student of frivolity. Here she seems to have developed
into a brilliant woman with more character and steadfastness than I
should ever have given her credit for. Her features are the same, yet
the change has written its mark into her face. Do you know, Lady
Ferringhall, I am proud that your sister permits me to call myself her
friend."
"And in Paris----"
"In Paris," he interrupted, "she was a very delightful companion, but
beyond that--one did not take her seriously. I am not boring you, am
I?"
She raised her eyes to his and smiled into his face.
"You are not boring me," she said, "but I would rather talk of
something else. I suppose you will think me very unsisterly and
cold-hearted, but there are circumstances in connexion with my
sister's latest exploit which are intensely irritating both to my
husband and to myself."
He recognized the force, almost the passion, which trembled in her
tone, and he at once abandoned the subject. He remained talking with
her however. It was easy for him to see that she desired to be
agreeable to him. They talked lightly but confidentially until Sir
John approached them with a slight frown upon his face.
"Mr. Ennison," he said, "it is for you to cut in at Lady Angela's
table. Anna, do you not see that the Countess is sitting alone?"
She rose, and flashed a quick smile upon Ennison behind her husband's
back.
"You must come and see me some afternoon," she said to him.
He murmured his delight, and joined the bridge party, where he played
with less than his accustomed skill. On the way home he was still
thoughtful. He turned in at the club. They were talking of "Alcide,"
as they often did in those days.
"She has improved her style," someone declared. "Certainly her voice
is far more musical."
Another differed.
"She has lost something," he declared, "something which brought the
men in crowds around the stage at the 'Ambassador's.' I don't know what
you'd call it--a sort of witchery, almost suggestiveness. She sings
better perhaps. But I don't think she lays hold of one so."
"I will tell you what there is about her which is so fetching,"
Drummond, who was lounging by, declared. "She contrives somehow to
strike the personal note in an amazing manner. You are wedged in
amongst a crowd, perhaps in the promenade, you lean over the back, you
are almost out of sight. Yet you catch her eye--you can't seem to
escape from it. You feel that that smile is for you, the words are for
you, the whole song is for you. Naturally you shout yourself hoarse
when she has finished, and feel jolly pleased with yourself."