I understand. He's a sculptor, you know. Such a romantic occupation, isn't it?—and so suitable. He has such classical features himself—just like Apollo, or, well, all those Greeky-Roman people. To me he has the air of being the least little bit stand-off. What do you think? I daresay that's just my fancy though, for I hear he is quite charming, but alarmingly clever. He is more than ten years older than Miss Armstrong, they say, and I believe there's more difference than that even—don't you think so?" But Mrs. Yeo's gaze had turned in the direction of the white dress again.
"She is very lovely," she repeated, "but I don't think she seems quite happy."
The girl under discussion had risen from her seat and was standing at the corner of the mantelpiece, one hand resting on the low shelf. From where Mrs. Yeo was sitting she caught a glimpse of a very delicately tinted face; the light from a rose-shaded lamp above the girl's head fell softly on masses of rippling red-brown hair growing low on the forehead, and parted over the brows, Clytie fashion. Her long trailing gown fell in white folds to her feet.
Mrs. Yeo was young and imaginative. Her friend's information about the sculptor fiancé had doubtless something to do with the fancifulness of the notion, yet, as she looked at the girl, her mind was full of vague ideas of Galatea, the beautiful statue slowly awakening to this distressful life.
"Not happy?" echoed Mrs. Lockyer. "Oh, why not? She ought to be. It's a most desirable match in every way. Mr. Margrave is well connected and rich, I believe; and "—this in a slightly lower key—"between ourselves, the Armstrongs are not particularly well off. She's a very quiet girl, I think; not that I know much of her. She's so very young, you know, only just
