with that pretty look, half-smiling,
half-wistful, to know how she had got through her domestic duties. There
was a slight air of hurry and embarrassment about her eyes. The season
had not begun, and she could not have been overdone by her social
duties; but something had aged and changed her. Some old acquaintances
came forward and shook hands with Jock; and Sir Tom, when he saw who it
was, detached himself from the person he was talking to, and came
forward and gave him a sufficiently cordial welcome. The person with
whom he was talking was the Contessa. She was in her old place in the
room, the comfortable sofa which she had taken from Lady Randolph, and
where Sir Tom, leaning upon the mantelpiece, as an Englishman loves to
do, could talk to her in the easiest of attitudes. Jock, though he was
not discerning, thought that Sir Tom looked aged and changed too. The
people in general had a tired afternoon sort of look about them. They
were not like people exulting to get out of town, and out of darkness
and winter weather to the fresh air and April skies. Perhaps, however,
this effect was produced by the fact that looking for one special person
in the assembly Jock had not found her. He had never cared who was there
before. Except Lucy, the whole world was much the same to him. To talk
to her now and then, but by preference alone, when he could have her to
himself and nobody else was by, and then to escape to the library, had
been the height of his desire. Now he no longer thought of the library,
or even, save in a secondary way, of Lucy. He looked about for some one
else. There was the Contessa, sure enough, with one man on the sofa by
her side and another seated in front of her, and Sir Tom against the
mantelpiece lounging and talking. She was enchanting them all with her
rapid talk, with the pretty, swift movements of her hands, her
expressive looks and ways. But there was no shadow of Bice about the
room. Jock looked at once behind the table, where she had been always
visible when the Contessa was present. But Bice was not there. There was
not a trace of her among the people whom Jock neither knew nor cared to
know. But everything went on cheerfully, notwithstanding this omission,
which nobody but Jock seemed to remark. Ladies chattered softly as they
sipped their tea, men standing over them telling anecdotes of this
person and that, with runs of soft laughter here and there. Lucy at the
tea-table was the only one who