The feminine curves of the furniture, such as is usually kept for the
drawing-room, were all pure Louis-Quinze. It was deliriously pretty in
its pink and white and pale green.
In the drawing-room the hosts stood by one of those large, old-fashioned
oaken fireplaces so supremely helpful to conversation and
_tete-a-tetes_. In Edith's house there was never any general
conversation except at dinner. People simply made friends, flirted, and
enjoyed themselves.
As the clock struck eight the Mitchells were announced. Edith could
scarcely control a laugh as Mr Mitchell came in, he looked so utterly
unlike the dangerous lover Madame Frabelle had conjured up. He was
immensely tall, broad, loosely built, large-shouldered, with a red
beard, a twinkle in his eye, and the merriest of laughs. He was a
delightful man, but there was no romance about him. Besides, Edith
remembered him as a black poodle.
* * * * *
Mrs. Mitchell struck a useful note, and seemed a perfect complement to
her husband, the ideal wife for him. She was about forty-five, but being
slim, animated, and well dressed (though entirely without _chic_), she
seemed a good deal younger.
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