Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. The next moment, an exclamation was heard in the voice of Thames. The few whites he had ever known generally offered to pet him when they really wanted to kick him. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. He was not due from the City until about six, and so she went and played Badminton with the Widgett girls until dinner-time.
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