She knew that he was angry, and that he
wanted to compose himself.
The Countess was as handsome by morning light, in her black velvet and
chinchilla, as at night in flame colour and gold. But--the girl hoped she
was not ill-natured--she looked _meretricious_. If she were "made up,"
the process defied Annesley Grayle's eyes; yet surely never was skin so
flawlessly white; and such golden-red hair with dark eyes and eyebrows
must be unique.
"Great Scott, I thought she meant to spend the morning with us!" Smith
broke out, viciously. "I realize, now I've seen you together, that she's
not--the ideal chaperon. But any port in a storm!"
"I thought you liked her," Annesley said.
"So I do--within limits. At least I appreciate qualities that she has.
But there are times--when a little of her goes a long way."
"I'm afraid she realized that you weren't making her welcome," Annesley
smiled. "You weren't very nice to her, were you?"
"I was as nice as she deserved," the man excused himself.
"But she was good to me last night!"
"She owes it to me to be good. It's a debt I expect her to pay, that's
all, and I'm not sure she's paying it generously.
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