Man with the Dark Beard by Annie Haynes Page A

luxurious-looking Chesterfield, and against the wall there was a pair of spindle-legged, straight-backed chairs, quite evidently more for ornament than for use. A copper bowl on a small, solid-looking table held a wealth of roses, deepest damask, pink La France, glowing orange-golden William Alan Richardson. The rich damask of the chairs and cushions matched the curtains, and the only ornaments were of white china.
    There was one curious omission, there were neither books nor papers about. The only sign of any occupation in which Miss Houlton could possibly indulge was an untidy pile of needlework thrust almost entirely out of sight behind one of the cushions of the Chesterfield.
    Wilton’s masculine eyes were not experienced enough to recognize a partly made jumper.
    Iris drew one of the inviting looking chairs forward.
    â€œYou look fagged to death, Mr. Wilton. Now, just put yourself back in that and don’t talk until the tea comes.”
    Wilton felt no desire to be disobedient. He had not realized how tired he was until he laid his head back against the cool-looking damask.
    Iris sat down opposite, crossing her slim legs in their silk stockings. She threw aside her hat and Wilton could not help admiring the shape of her small head. Her hair was shingled, and waved round her temples in tiny, bewitching curls.
    They had not long to wait. The maid brought in a huge copper tray on a tripod and placed it beside Iris. It contained a dainty tea equippage, a plate of cakes, a large dish of sandwiches, another of fruit, and a jug of golden cream.
    When she had departed, Iris brought up a small table. Wilton noticed with satisfaction that it was not one of the gimcrack ones, usually associated with women’s rooms, but stood firmly on straight wooden legs.
    â€œNo, no! sit still! I know how tired you used to get in the old days at Dr. Bastow’s,” she said, giving him a little push back when he moved to help her.
    â€œTwo lumps of sugar and plenty of cream, isn’t it? I have brought tea often enough to you in the surgery, you know.”
    â€œYou have, haven’t you?” Wilton assented. “Not that we got much cream, did we?”
    â€œNo.” Miss Houlton drew her lips in.
    She did not speak again until she had given Wilton his tea, and put the sandwiches beside him; then she said slowly:
    â€œNo, Hilary Bastow wasn’t much of a house-keeper, was she? But that will not matter. Sir Felix Skrine has plenty of money for housekeepers.”
    There was dead silence for a minute. Wilton was stirring his tea. He went on stirring it, though every drop of blood in his body seemed to have flown to his face, in reality, his brown skin was not a degree deeper in colour, and when he spoke his voice was perfectly steady.
    â€œYou mean –?”
    â€œThat Lady Skrine will not need to be a good housekeeper. Isn’t it obvious?” Iris finished with a laugh.
    Wilton drew his dark brows together. Iris Houlton was saying this purposely; she was quick-witted enough. She must have known how matters stood between Hilary and himself.
    â€œWhy do you say that?” he asked quietly. “I am sure you must know that I am engaged to Miss Bastow.”
    Iris glanced at him in a curious, sidelong fashion. Then she gave a little laugh that somehow did not sound natural.
    â€œNo, indeed! I did suspect a little tendresse at one time. But when I went to say good-bye to Hilary, I found Sir Felix Skrine there, and I quite gathered –”
    â€œYou gathered what?”
    Iris laughed again. She got up and moved the tea-things in an aimless way.
    â€œOh, well, of course, now that you tell me that things are definitely settled, I realize that I must have been mistaken in thinking I saw –”
    â€œWhat did you think you saw?” Wilton’s tone denoted that his patience was becoming exhausted.
    â€œOh, nothing, nothing!” Iris said hurriedly. “Didn’t I tell you