The Building of Jalna. Mazo de la Roche

To her, the baby’s black hair and eyes, her sallow skin, were romantic and alluring.

      “How do you suppose they came by her?” she asked her husband. “Philip, with his pink cheeks — Adeline, with her auburn hair and creamy complexion!”

      “Better ask that Rajah she’s always raving about,” observed the Dean. “He might be able to tell you.”

      His wife looked at him in horror. In all their married life he had never before made such a ribald remark. And that about her own brother’s wife!

      “Well,” said the Dean, in self-defence, “look at the magnificent ruby ring he gave her!”

      “Frederick!” she cried, still more horrified. “You are not in earnest, are you?”

      “Of course not,” he answered, in a mollifying tone. “Can’t you take a joke?” But he added — “Then why did the Rajah give her the ring? I can see that Philip didn’t like it.”

      “The Rajah gave her the ring because she saved the life of his son. They were riding together when the boy’s horse bolted. It was a spirited Arab steed and it became unmanageable.”

      The Dean gave what was nearer to a grin than a smile. “And Adeline was a beautiful Irish hussy and she caught the Arab steed and saved the Rajah’s heir,” he said.

      “Yes.” Augusta looked at him coldly.

      “Was Philip there? Did he assist in the rescue?”

      “No, I don’t think he was there. Why?”

      “Well, the Rajah might not have rewarded an upstanding British officer so handsomely.”

      “Frederick, I think you’re horrid!” she exclaimed, and left him to his own sinister musings.

      It was Adeline’s idea to have their portraits painted while they were in England. They might never have another such opportunity. Certainly they would never be handsomer than they were at this time. Above all, she must have a real portrait — no mere daguerreotype would do — of Philip in all the glory of his uniform of an officer of Hussars. To the Hussars and to the Buffs the Whiteoak family had, in times past, supplied many a fine officer but never, in Adeline’s mind, one so dashing, so noble-looking, as Philip.

      The idea was agreeable to Philp too, though the amount he had to hand over to the artist was rather staggering. But his portraits were fashionable, especially among the military class. Not only could he make a uniform look as though it would step out of the frame; he could impart a commanding look to the most insignificant and dyspeptic officer. Where lady sitters were concerned he was at his best with flesh tints, ringlets, and shimmering fabrics. Probably his portraits of Philip and Adeline were the most successful of his career. It was a heartbreak to him that they were to be taken out of England before they could be exhibited at the Academy. He did, however, give a large party to show them in his studio, at which the young people were present. This had been the night before they had seen The Bohemian Girl.

      The idea of owning portraits of themselves in their prime had not been all that was in Adeline’s mind when she suggested this extravagance. She knew that it would entail many weeks in London for the sittings and she was determined to have as pleasureful a time as possible while in England. There had been three visits to London. This was their last. Tomorrow they were to return to the quiet cathedral town. Adeline threw herself into a stuffed velvet chair in the hotel bedroom and exclaimed dramatically: —

      “I’m so transported I could die!”

      “You feel too much,” returned Philip. “It would be better if you took things coolly, as I do.” He looked at her anxiously, then added: “You are quite pale. I shall ring for a glass of stout and some biscuits for you.”

      “No. Not stout! Champagne! Nothing so prosaic as stout after that divine opera. Oh, never shall I forget this night! Oh, the heavenly voice of Thaddeus! Oh, how sweet Arline was! Philip, can you remember any of the songs? We must buy the music! Try if you can sing ‘I Dreamt That I Dwelt in Marble Halls’!”

      “I couldn’t possibly.”

      “Try ‘Then You’ll Remember Me.’”

      “I couldn’t,” he returned doggedly.

      “Then — ‘The Light of Other Days!’ Do try that!”

      “I couldn’t — not to save my life.”

      She sprang up, letting her fur-trimmed evening wrap fall to the floor, and began to pace up and down the room. She had a passionate but not very musical voice and little idea of tune, but she managed to get the first bars of her favourite song from the opera.

      “I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls,

       With vassals and serfs at my side —”

      As she sang she raised her chin, showing the beauty of her long milk-white neck. She smiled triumphantly at Philip. Her voluminous light-blue taffeta crinoline swayed about her, in all its ruchings and narrow velvet edgings. Above her tiny waist her round breasts rose, supporting a mass of lace, caught by turquoise pins and little velvet flowers. Her shoulders glistened in lovely pallor in the candlelight. Just touching her neck her auburn curls descended from her heavy chignon. Philip saw her beauty but he saw also the thinness of her arms, the too vivid redness of her lips and brightness of her eyes. He rose and pulled the bell cord and, when a servant appeared, ordered the stout.

      She had given up the song. Now the tune had quite eluded her but she found it hard to settle down. She drew back the dark red curtains and looked down into the street where the gas lamps made pools of light on the wet pavement and the cab horses clip-clopped past with draggled manes and rain-soaked harness. The mysterious lives of the people in the cabs filled her with a strange longing. She turned to Philip.

      “We shall sometimes come back, shan’t we?” she asked.

      “Of course we shall. I’ll engage to bring you back every second or third year. We are not going to bury ourselves in the wilds. And don’t forget New York. We will visit it too.”

      She threw her arms about his neck and gave him a swift kiss.

      “My angel,” she said. “If I had to go to bed tonight with anyone but you, I’d throw myself out of that window.”

      “And quite properly,” he observed.

      They drew apart and stood in decorous attitudes as the man-servant reappeared with the refreshments. He laid a snowy cloth on an oval, marble-topped table and then set out several bottles of stout, biscuits and cheese, a cold pigeon pie for Philip and a small bowl of hot beef extract for Adeline.

      “How good it looks!” she exclaimed, when they were alone. “Do you know, I’m getting my appetite again! D’ye think I dare eat some of that cheddar cheese? I do love cheese!”

      “What expressions you use! You love me and you love cheese! I suppose there’s no difference in your affection.”

      She laughed. “You old silly!” Then she pressed her hands to her sides. “But really, Philip, you will have to unlace me before I attempt to eat or I shall have room for nothing but a biscuit.”

      As he helped her with the intricate fastenings of her dress, he said seriously — “I cannot help thinking that this tight lacing is all wrong. In fact the doctor on shipboard told me that it is responsible for many of the difficult births.”

      “Very well,” she declared, “when we are in Canada I shall leave off my stays and go about like a sack tied in the middle. Picture me in the wilds! I am on a hunting expedition. I have just trapped or shot a deer, a beaver, or something of the sort. I am on my way home with my quarry slung over my shoulder. Suddenly I am conscious of some slight discomfort. I recall the fact that I am enceinte. Possibly my hour has come. I find a convenient spot beneath an olive tree —”

      “They don’t have ’em there.”

      “Very well. Any tree will