A moment later she came in, her arm on Austin's. Her neck and arms were
bare, as he loved to see them, and her white silk dress, brocaded in tiny
pink rosebuds, swept soft and full about her. A single string of great
pearls fell over the lace on her breast, and almost down to her waist,
and there was a high, jewelled comb in her low-dressed hair. She leaned
over her uncle's chair.
"Austin says the others are on their way. Am I all right, do you think,
Uncle Mat?"
"You look to me as if you had stepped out of an old French painting," he
said, pinching her rosy cheek; "I'm satisfied with you. But the question
arises, is Austin? He's so fussy."
Austin laughed, straightening his tie. "I can't fuss about this dress,"
he said, "for I chose it myself. But I'm not half the tyrant you all make
me out--I'm wearing white flannel to please her. Is there plenty of
supper, Sylvia? I'm almost starved."
"I know enough to expect a man to be hungry, even if he's going to be
hanged--or married," she retorted, "but I'll run out to the kitchen once
more, just to make sure that everything is all right.
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