"Mr. Winscombe," Howat Penny's mother said, "my son." The former bowed
with formal civility, but gave a baffling effect of mockery which,
Howat discovered, enveloped practically every movement and speech. He
was, he said, enchanted to meet Mr. Penny; and that extravagant
expression, delivered in a slightly harsh, negligent voice, heightened
the impression of a personality strong and cold; a being as obdurate as
an iron bar masquerading in coloured satin and formulating pretty
phrases like the sheen on the surface of a deep November pool. Gilbert
Penny echoed the introduction at the other end of the table.

Howat saw, in the yellow candlelight, a woman not, he decided, any
better looking than Caroline, in an extremely low cut gown of scarlet,
with a rigid girdle of saffron brocade, a fluted tulle ruff tied with a
scarlet string about a long, slim neck, and a cap of sheer cambric with
a knot of black ribbons. Her eyes were widely opened and dark, her nose
short, and her mouth full and petulant. She, too, was conventionally
adequate; but her insincerity was clearer than her husband's, it was
pronounced quickly, in an impertinent and musical voice, without the
slightest pretence of the injection of any interest. Howat Penny felt,
in a manner which he was unable to place, that she vaguely resembled
himself; perhaps it lay in her eyebrows slanting slightly toward the
temples; but it was vaguer, more elusive, than that.

He considered it idly, through the course of supper. At intervals he
heard her voice, a little, high-pitched laugh with a curious,
underlying flatness: not of tone, her modulations were delicate and
exact; but deeper. Again he was dimly conscious of an aspect of her
which eluded every effort to fix and define. He could not even
comprehend his dwelling upon the immaterial traits of a strange and