"How splendid!" he said. "Mrs. Milbanke, may I find my uncle and bring him to be introduced?"
He bent forward quickly, leaning across Milbanke's empty chair.
For one second Clodagh sat irresolute; then she glanced swiftly from one interested, admiring face to the other, and again the blood rushed into her face in a wave of self-conscious pleasure.
"Yes," she said softly--"yes. Bring your uncle to be introduced."
Serracauld smiled his acknowledgment of the granted permission, and departed in search of his uncle; while Barnard looked at Clodagh with amused interest.
"If you can waive your prejudices against the milk baths, Mrs. Milbanke," he said, "you'll find old Deerehurst quite a delightful person. But, of course, when one is very young, prejudices are adhesive things."
He finished his coffee meditatively, stealing a glance at her from the corner of his eye.
She remained silent for a moment, tentatively fingering her cup.
"Do I seem so very young?" she asked at last, without raising her eyes.
At the words, he turned and looked at her fully.
"Do you know, Mrs. Milbanke," he said seriously, "I am literally devoured by a desire to ask you your age? When I saw you come downstairs to-night, I felt--pardon the rudeness!--like laughing in James's face when he introduced you as his wife. You scarcely looked eighteen. But a little while ago, when you spoke of your life at Florence, I suddenly felt out in my calculations. Your face, of course, seemed just as fascinatingly young; but from your expression I could have believed you to be twenty-four. And now again--Please _do_ be lenient to my impertinence!--now again, as you spoke to Serracauld, you looked like a child turning the first page in the book of life. Are you an enigma?"
During the first portion of his speech, Clodagh had looked grave; but at his last words she laughed with a touch of constraint.
"No," she answered. "I am nothing half so interesting--and it's four years since I was eighteen. But hadn't I better get my cloak before Mr. Serracauld comes back?"
With another slightly embarrassed laugh, she rose; and without waiting for Barnard's escort, walked out of the room.
Ten minutes later, she descended the stairs, wrapped in a light evening cloak. Her cheeks were still flushed with excitement, and her hazel eyes were dark with anticipation. Yesterday--only yesterday--she had been a mere item in the secluded, unimportant life of the villa at Florence; now, to-night, three men--each one of whom must, in his time, have known superlatively interesting and beautiful women--awaited her pleasure!