"Bravo, Mr. Herrick, and you too, Nora," exclaimed Elizabeth,
clapping her hands, "you both played splendidly; now come into the
hall and let me give you some claret cup;" but she lingered a moment
until Mr. Carlyon came up with his partner.
"I am not in good form to-day," he said, sinking into an easy-chair
as though he were tired. "I feel Mondayish--do you know what I mean,
Herrick?"
"I can guess. It is a purely clerical term. You have taken it out of
yourself, and then you feel a sort of reaction--or rather, to speak
more correctly, a sort of depression;" but as he spoke, he realised
for the first time the truth of Elizabeth's assertion that Mr.
Carlyon was not strong.
Elizabeth had never looked better in Malcolm's opinion than she did
that afternoon; if he had not admired her before, he must have owned
then that she was a distinguished-looking woman.
She wore a gray dress of some soft material, which Malcolm, who was
rather a connoisseur on feminine attire, decided in his own mind was
a Paris gown,--strange to say, he was right,--and the black
Gainsborough hat and feathers suited her exactly.
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