Vision House

								

seem to look at anyone, or be aware that anyone looked at her.
Nevertheless, all eyes were focussed upon the standing figure in the
chinchilla coat and blue toque while the lady in brown and sables was
being seated. Even Lord Severance had eyes only for the girl as he lent
his hands to her maid to tuck in the brown rugs. But the girl's smile
was for her mother, and it was not till Mrs. Sorel was settled that she
moved. A charming little scene of daughterly devotion, worthy a
paragraph if there were a journalist in sight!
Just as Severance, with an air of absorption, wrapped Miss Sorel's grey
suède shoes in her chinchilla-lined rug, the giant in the ghastly
clothes hurled himself past. The girl did not lift her lashes, so famous
for their length and curl. She was hanging a gold-mesh bag on the arm of
her chair. You would say that she had not noticed the fellow. But the
fellow had noticed her.
The distant-desert look died. In his eyes a flame lit, and flashed at
the girl in the chair. It was a light that literally spoke. It said
"God! You're a beauty." Then he flung one of his glances at Severance,
scornful or jealous as before. To do this he had not actually paused,
yet it was as if something had happened. Whatever the thing was,
Severance resented it in hot silence; and, in turn, his eyes did deadly
work. They stabbed the broad back of the badly-cut, badly-fitting coat
as its wearer forged away, hands deep in pockets.
Miss Sorel sat between her mother and Lord Severance. She glanced at the
former as if to begin a conversation, but Mrs. Sorel had opened her
lorgnettes and a novel. The girl knew the signal: "Don't talk to me.
Talk to him." But she was lazy in obeying. She felt so sure of
Severance, that she needn't try to hold him by any tricks. She might now
treat him as she chose. Not that she had ever let him see that she was
anxious to please. But there had been an anxious time. The girl didn't
want to talk, so she sat deliciously still, deliciously happy. She was
thinking. The restful peace of the sea after stormy days made her think
of herself.
She often thought of herself; more, indeed, than of any other subject,
because, like most beautiful young actresses, she had been encouraged to
form the habit. But this was special--extra special.
The girl was so content with her world that she shut herself in with it
by shutting her eyes. Then she faintly smiled in order that (just in
case they happened to look) people shouldn't suppose she was seasick.
How odd that it should be her mother's lorgnettes which had reminded her
suddenly of her own good luck--the lorgnettes, and the delicate ringed
fingers grasping the tortoiseshell handle!
Once that little hand had not been so white. There had been no leisure
for manicuring nails, and polishing them to the sheen of pink coral.
There had been no rings--no lorgnettes monogramed with rose diamonds.