Page:Comin' Thro' the Rye (1898).djvu/226

218 survey myself in the mirror with sneaking admiration. "You little fool!" I say, shaking my fist at my pleased face; "you don't look so much amiss there all by yourself, but wait till you get downstairs among the rest—that'll take the conceit out of you!"

the Luttrell drawing-rooms, that open one out of the other, almost as lofty and wide as the aisles of a church, and which are darkly splendid with the pictures of the old masters, and bright with glowing, brilliant flowers, that bloom in every nook and corner like jewels set in dull brown leaves, are sitting a dozen or so of people, enduring that mauvais quart d'heure that precedes dinner. Silvia has not yet made her appearance, but all the other guests are present, I think, and I have bowed to so many, that my head feels like a pendulum that is bound to go on wagging by the force of its own momentum.

Mrs. Fleming reclines in an easy chair, fatter, kinder, fairer than ever—an agreeable contrast to the lady to whom she is talking, who is sallow and lean and ill-favoured. Her name is Lister, and she is mother to those two sweetly simpering young ladies who are frisking on yonder causeuse like lambkins, displaying an ostentatious affection for each other that speaks volumes for the encounters they have in private. Their nods and becks and wreathed smiles are evidently directed at two good-looking captains sitting near, who appear very insensible, and make no amative grimaces in return.