Her dress of a delicate pink, touched here and there with black, her wide black hat, and the eyes which glowed from the small pointed face beneath it; the tumbling masses of her dark hair as contrasted with her general lightness and slenderness; the red of the lips, the whiteness of the hands and brow, the dainty irregularity of feature: these things made a Watteau sketch of her, all pure colour and lissomeness, with dots and scratches of intense black.

Daphne was much handsomer than she had been as a girl, but also a trifle less refined.

All her points were intensified--her eyes had more flame; the damask of her cheek was deeper; her grace was wilder, her voice a little shriller than of old.
While the uncomfortable silence which the two women had made around them still lasted, Roger Barnes appeared on the garden steps.
"Hullo! any tea going ?" He came in, without waiting for an answer, looked from his mother to Daphne, from Daphne to his mother, and laughed uncomfortably.
"Still bothering about those beastly pictures ?" he said as he helped himself to a cup of tea.
"_Thank_ you, Roger!" said Lady Barnes.
"I didn't mean any harm, mother." He crossed over to her and sat down beside her.

"I say, Daphne, I've got an idea.

Why shouldn't mother have them?
She's going to take a house, she says.