There was an upright, ebonized piano draped in a
fringed, Roman scarf and holding a towering jar of roses, a great,
carved easel with a painstaking, smooth oil painting of a dark man in an
attitude of fixed dignity, and an expensively cased talking machine. The
original, evidently, of the portrait, and a small, rotund woman in mauve
brocade, advanced to meet them. Young Polder said, "My mother and
father. This is Miss Jannan and Mr. Howat Penny."
The latter saw that Mrs. Byron Polder was distinctly nervous; she
twisted the diamonds that occupied a not inconsiderable portion of her
short fingers, and smiled rigidly. "I am very pleased to meet you, Miss
Jannan," she proceeded; "and Mr. Penny too." She held out a hand, then
half withdrew it; but Mariana captured it in her direct palm. "Thank
you," she replied. Byron Polder had a more confident poise; in reality
there was a perceptible chill in his manner. He was a handsome man, with
a cleanly-shaven face, introspective brown eyes and a petulant, drooping
mouth. "You have succeeded in finding your way to my house," he
pronounced enigmatically, gazing at Howat Penny.
It was, Howat thought, just such an ill-bred utterance as he had looked
for from Byron Polder; and he made no effort to mitigate it.
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