Mrs. Rossall had spoken to her of Beatrice Redwing’s delightful singing, and had asked her to come to the drawing-room during the evening; having declined the afternoon’s drive, Emily did not feel able to neglect this other invitation.  The day had become sultry towards its close; when she joined the company about nine o’clock, she found Beatrice with Mrs. Rossall sitting in the dusk by the open French windows, Mr. Athel in a chair just outside, and Wilfrid standing by him, the latter pair smoking.  The sky beyond the line of dark greenery was still warm with after-glow of sunset.

Emily quietly sought a chair near Mrs. Rossall, from whom she received a kind look.  Mr. Athel was relating a story of his early wanderings in Egypt, with a leisurely gusto, an effective minuteness of picturing, the result of frequent repetition.  At the points of significance he would pause for a moment or two and puff life into his cigar.  His anecdotes were seldom remarkable, but they derived interest from the enjoyment with which he told them; they impressed one with a sense of mental satisfaction, of physical robustness held in reserve, of life content among the good things of the world.

‘Shall we have lights?’ Mrs. Rossall asked, when the story at length came to an end.

‘Play us something first,’ said Beatrice.  ’This end of twilight is so pleasant.’

Mrs. Rossall went to the piano, upon which still fell a glimmer from another window, and filled the room with harmony suiting the hour.  Wilfrid had come in and seated himself on a couch in a dark corner; his father paced up and down the grass.  Emily watched the first faint gleam of stars in the upper air.

Then lamps and candles were brought in.  Beatrice was seen to be dressed in dark blue, her hair richly attired, a jewelled cross below her throat, her bosom and arms radiant in bare loveliness.  Emily, at the moment that she regarded her, found herself also observed.  Her own dress was of warm grey, perfectly simple, with a little lace at the neck and wrists.  Beatrice averted her eyes quickly, and made some laughing remark to Mr. Athel.

‘I know you always object to sing without some musical preparation,’ said Mrs. Rossall, as she took a seat by the girl’s side.  ’I wonder whether we ought to close the windows; are you afraid of the air?’

‘Oh, leave them open!’ Beatrice replied.  ‘It is so close.’

Her cheeks had a higher colour than usual; she lay back in the chair with face turned upwards, her eyes dreaming.

‘You are tired, I am afraid,’ Mrs. Rossall said, ’in spite of your sleep in the hammock.  The first day in the country always tires me dreadfully.’

‘Yes, I suppose I am, a little,’ murmured Beatrice.

‘Not too tired, I hope, to sing,’ said Wilfrid, coming from his couch in the corner to a nearer seat.  His way of speaking was not wholly natural; like his attitude, it had something constrained; he seemed to be discharging a duty.