The Buccaneers by Edith Wharton Page A

March, always modestly averred.
    The tiny dwelling, a mere two-windowed wedge, with a bulging balcony under a striped awning, had been newly painted a pale buff, and freshly festooned with hanging pink geraniums and intensely blue lobelias. The carriage, on the contrary, a vast old-fashioned barouche of faded yellow, with impressive armorial bearings, and coachmen and footmen to scale, showed no signs of recent renovation; and the lady who descended from it was, like her conveyance, large and rather shabby though undeniably impressive.
    A freshly starched parlour-maid let her in with a curtsey of recognition. “Miss March is in the drawing-room, my lady.” She led the visitor up the narrow stairs and announced from the threshold: “Please, miss, Lady Brightlingsea.”
    Two ladies sat in the drawing-room in earnest talk. One of the two was vaguely perceived by Lady Brightlingsea to be small and brown, with burning black eyes which did not seem to go with her stiff purple poplin and old-fashioned beaded dolman.
    The other lady was also very small, but extremely fair and elegant, with natural blond curls touched with gray, and a delicate complexion. She hurried hospitably forward.
    â€œDearest Lady Brightlingsea! What a delightful surprise!—You’re not going to leave us, Laura?”
    It was clear that the dark lady addressed as Laura was meant to do exactly what her hostess suggested she should not. She pressed the latter’s hand in a resolute brown kid glove, bestowed a bow and a slanting curtsey on the Marchioness of Brightlingsea, and was out of the room with the ease and promptness of a person long practised in self-effacement.
    Lady Brightlingsea sent a vague glance after the retreating figure. “Now, who was that, my dear? I seem to know....”
    Miss March, who had a touch of firmness under her deprecating exterior, replied without hesitation: “An old friend, dear Lady Brightlingsea, Miss Testvalley, who used to be governess to the Duchess’s younger girls at Tintagel.”
    Lady Brightlingsea’s long pale face grew vaguer. “At Longlands? Oh, but of course. It was I who recommended her to Blanche Tintagel.... Testvalley? The name is so odd. She was with us, you know; she was with Honoria and Ulrica before Ma-dame Championnet finished them.”
    â€œYes, I remember you used to think well of her. I believe it was at Allfriars I first met her.”
    Lady Brightlingsea looked plaintively at Miss March. Her face always grew plaintive when she was asked to squeeze one more fact—even one already familiar—into her weary and overcrowded memory. “Oh, yes... oh, yes!”
    Miss March, glancing brightly at her guest, as though to reanimate the latter’s failing energy, added: “I wish she could have stayed. You might have been interested in her experiences in America....”
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“In America?” Lady Brightlingsea’s vagueness was streaked by a gleam of interest. “She’s been in America?”
    â€œIn the States. In fact, I think she was governess to that new beauty who’s being talked about a good deal just now. A Miss St. George—Virginia St. George. You may have heard of her?”
    Lady Brightlingsea drew herself up and said testily: “But of course she was in America... and with some people called St. George. How else would I have known where to send my cable?”
    â€œYou—cabled Miss Testvalley?”
    â€œWhen we learned of my son Richard’s engagement, I asked Testvalley if the young woman was black, and I received such an odd reply. ‘No but comely.’ Such a strange expression.”
    â€œThe Psalms... ?” Miss March suggested gently. “The Song of Songs... ‘My love is black but comely’? But do tell me if you have heard of Virginia St. George—the beauty?”
    Lady Brightlingsea sighed at this new call upon her powers of concentration. “I hear of