Mistress of Brown Furrows Read Online Free Page B

an off-the-shoulder neckline, and a knot of narrow black velvet ribbons at the base of the brief corsage. There was nothing in the least sophisticated about it; on the contrary it had an enchanting air of rather prim picturesqueness, and a Romney-like touch of romantic simplicity.
    Carol, with her spun-gold curls, her slender column of a throat, and her serene grey eyes with their brown, silky eyelashes, looked as if the dress had been made for her and never intended for anyone else.
    When she wore it that night for the visit to the theatre her guardian looked at her for the first time with something like astonishment. Delphine had discreetly suggested a visit to a hairdresser, and a few hints on more skilful makeup, and Carol had certainly profited by this visit, without being in any way transformed or too noticeably improved in appearance.
    To begin with, her hair was not the same, although it curled just as softly, and was still the same pale primrose gold. It was shorter, if anything, and there was a fascinating suggestion of a curling fringe lying like the ends of an ostrich feather on her wide, white forehead. It was quite obvious that her heart-shaped face, with its dimpled chin, was very skilfully made up, the feathery brown eyebrows darkened ever so slightly, although the eyelashes were untouched, and the full, not-so-childish-looking mouth glowed like a scarlet hibiscus. When her lips parted and she smiled up at her guardian her little teeth gleamed like the most perfect set of pearls, and there was a shy look in her eyes which invited his admiration.
    But he said nothing, and she looked for a moment almost disappointed.
    “Do I look—How—how do I look?” she inquired at last, as if it was of the utmost importance to her to learn his views on what she believed to be her considerably altered appearance.
    He put his head on one side and regarded her, and there was that faint quizzical gleam in his eyes with which she was now becoming fairly familiar.
    “Well, my dear,” he admitted, “I am more than a little dazzled, but it will take quite a while to grow used to you. Do you mind if I leave it at that for the present?”
    Her face instantly fell.
    “Then you don’ t—approve?”
    “Silly child,” he said, and put out a hand and lightly tweaked one of her curls. “It would be impossible not to approve, but you mustn’t be affected by my opinions.”
    And she had to content herself with that.
    During the interval, at the theatre, he took her to obtain refreshments at the buffet, and while she sipped an iced orangeade she looked about her at the other men and women present. Lovely frocks, elegant frocks were on all sides of her, and so were some very choice hair styles—they made hers seem very simple and unsophisticated. And she had never before seen so many smart-looking men in dinner-jackets. To Timothy Carrington, however, she secretly awarded the palm for appearing much more at his ease in his, and he had much more of a distinguished air than any of the other men who pressed forward to repeat the order for their drinks. And the bronzed line of his jaw was very noticeable against the white of his shirt front.
    Other women glanced at him, too, as they passed by, and they were definitely approving glances. One woman—in a cloudy black evening-dress scattered with sequins, with extraordinary large and brilliant dark eyes, a coronet of gleaming black plaits, and a milk-white skin—actually turned and seized him by the arm, while she stared at him in astonishment.
    “Why, Timothy!” she exclaimed unbelievingly. “I had no idea you were even in England! ”
    Her escort stood a little behind her, and looked ever so slightly uncomfortable while he waited to be introduced.
    “Viola! ” exclaimed Carrington, not looking particularly surprised.
    Her smile was obviously for him alone, for she had not even noticed Carol, and it was a slow, enchanting smile. Her age might have been somewhere between