Osmond usually sat-though she was not in her most customary place
to-night-and that a circle of more special intimates gathered about
the fire. The room was flushed with subdued, diffused brightness; it
contained the larger things and-almost always-an odour of flowers.
Pansy on this occasion was presumably in the next of the series, the
resort of younger visitors, where tea was served. Osmond stood
before the chimney, leaning back with his hands behind him; he had one
foot up and was warming the sole. Half a dozen persons, scattered near
him, were talking together; but he was not in the conversation; his
eyes had an expression, frequent with them, that seemed to represent
them as engaged with objects more worth their while than the
appearances actually thrust upon them. Rosier, coming in
unannounced, failed to attract his attention; but the young man, who
was very punctilious, though he was even exceptionally conscious
that it was the wife, not the husband, he had come to see, went up
to shake hands with him. Osmond put out his left hand, without
changing his attitude.
"How d'ye do? My wife's somewhere about."
"Never fear; I shall find her," said Rosier cheerfully.
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