Rather pale she looked and Londony; and her blue eyes were demure.
Waiting for them to come down to lunch, Soames stood in the open french-window of the diningroom moved by that sensuous delight in sunshine and flowers and trees which only came to the full when youth and beauty were there to share it with one.

He had ordered the lunch with intense consideration; the wine was a very special Sauterne, the whole appointments of the meal perfect, the coffee served on the veranda super-excellent.

Madame Lamotte accepted creme de menthe; Annette refused.

Her manners were charming, with just a suspicion of 'the conscious beauty' creeping into them.

'Yes,' thought Soames, 'another year of London and that sort of life, and she'll be spoiled.' Madame was in sedate French raptures.