The little
domestic quarrel over the luncheon-table had not been fought to a
definite finish, and the question was how far Lady Anne was in a
mood to renew or forgo hostilities. Her pose in the arm-chair by
the tea-table was rather elaborately rigid; in the gloom of a
December afternoon Egbert's pince-nez did not materially help him to
discern the expression of her face.
By way of breaking whatever ice might be floating on the surface he
made a remark about a dim religious light. He or Lady Anne were
accustomed to make that remark between 4.30 and 6 on winter and late
autumn evenings; it was a part of their married life. There was no
recognised rejoinder to it, and Lady Anne made none.
Don Tarquinio lay astretch on the Persian rug, basking in the
firelight with superb indifference to the possible ill-humour of
Lady Anne. His pedigree was as flawlessly Persian as the rug, and
his ruff was coming into the glory of its second winter. The page-
boy, who had Renaissance tendencies, had christened him Don
Tarquinio. Left to themselves, Egbert and Lady Anne would
unfailingly have called him Fluff, but they were not obstinate.
Egbert poured himself out some tea. As the silence gave no sign of
breaking on Lady Anne's initiative, he braced himself for another
Yermak effort.
"My remark at lunch had a purely academic application," he
announced; "you seem to put an unnecessarily personal significance
into it."
Lady Anne maintained her defensive barrier of silence.
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