Page:Alice Lauder.pdf/125

MY dear child, where have you been?” exclaimed Clare in a Cassandra-like voice. She was, to all outward view, reposing in the lap of luxury in her favourite easy-chair before a small wood fire (Clare’s health required a fire on most evenings), but her tone seemed to bespeak some impending calamity. “I could not have believed you would go out as soon as my back was turned, and I am afraid you will be very ill after it.”

They were in the dining parlour, a long apartment framed in dark crimson; the firelight glistened on silver and damask, and on a bunch of flaming, feathery heads of gladioli gathered together in a brown jug and falling over the white cloth with a vivid effect of colour, like the brilliant plumage of a macaw. Mead was laying the table, visibly prepared to stand by Miss Alice with a silent moral support, but conscious at the same time that he only represented a strong