It was unnatural; it was suspicious; she was not quite sure that it wasn't vaguely immoral.
At last there had been dinner--to which she came a full half-hour late, but of so ravishing and angelic an appearance that the sight of her was sufficient to mollify Sir Terence's impatience and stifle the withering sarcasms he had been laboriously preparing.

After dinner--which was taken at six o'clock--there was still an hour to spare before the carriage would come to take them into Lisbon.
Sir Terence pleaded stress of work, occasioned by the arrival of the Telemachus that morning, and withdrew with Tremayne to the official quarters, to spend that hour in disposing of some of the many matters awaiting his attention.

Sylvia, who to Lady O'Moy's exasperation seemed now for the first time to give a thought to what she should wear that night, went off in haste to gown herself, and so Lady O'Moy was left to her own resources--which I assure you were few indeed.
The evening being calm and warm, she sauntered out into the open.

She was more or less annoyed with everybody--with Sir Terence and Tremayne for their assiduity to duty, and with Sylvia for postponing all thought of dressing until this eleventh hour, when she might have been better employed in beguiling her ladyship's loneliness.

In this petulant mood, Lady O'Moy crossed the quadrangle, loitered a moment by the table and chairs placed under the trellis, and considered sitting there to await the others.