The third diner was an adored young
actor with a low, veiled voice which, combining itself with almond
eyes and a sentimental and emotional curve of cheek and chin, made
the most commonplace "lines" sound yearningly impassioned. He was
not impassioned at all--merely fond of his pleasures and comforts
in a way which would end by his becoming stout. At present his
figure was perfect--exactly the thing for the uniforms of royal
persons of Ruritania and places of that ilk--and the name by which
programmes presented him was Gerald Vesey.
Feather's house pleased him and she herself liked being spoken
to in the veiled voice and gazed at by the almond eyes, as though
insuperable obstacles alone prevented soul-stirring things from
being said. That she knew this was not true did not interfere with
her liking it. Besides he adored and understood her clothes.
Over coffee in the drawing-room, Coombe joined them. He had not
known of the little dinner and arrived just as Feather was on the
point of beginning her story.
"You are just in time," she greeted him, "I was going to tell them
something to make them laugh."
"Will it make me laugh?" he inquired.
"It ought to. Robin is in love. She is five years old and she has
been deserted, and Andrews came to tell me that she can neither
eat nor sleep. The doctor says she has had a shock."
Coombe did not join in the ripple of amused laughter but, as he
took his cup of coffee, he looked interested.
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