“And they are all so nice too—it is really hard to choose, but I think on the whole I prefer a certain young man who shall be nameless. Now, would you call his devotion to yourself ‘mad precipitation or a false generosity or a reckless passion?’” She moved herself lazily over the yellow skin until her head rested against the girl’s knee.
“And he is such a nice, eligible youth too. I hope you are not going to spoil his life by refusing him. Only think how lovely it would be to have one’s father-in-law representing the majesty of these United States at an Emperor’s court,” she went on, turning gayly to the others. “And he is so handsome and clever! He will be representing Uncle Sam himself some day, and she will be reading up the rules of court etiquette and receiving invitations from the Lord Chamberlain to dine with the Queen, and fuming because the Grand Duchess of something or other has the right to walk in to dinner before her.” She was not noticing the girl’s significant silence. “Of course he is just the man for you—you wouldn’t make any but a brilliant match, you know, with your beauty and society manner. But just for the present—well, next winter you will début, and you will be much talked about, and the youth will not be with his father at the European capital, but will be very much en évidence here, and then—after Easter we shall get your cards!”
She twisted her head around, smiling, so as to get a look at the girl’s face above her. It wore so grave and hopeless an expression that she gave a little cry.
“Forgive me,” she said, confusedly, “but you do love him, don’t you?”
The Beauty turned her eyes away and shook herself slightly, as if awakening from a dream.
“As confession seems to be the order of the hour,” she said in a dull tone, and smiling peculiarly, “I don’t mind owning that I do love him very much.”
She got up abruptly and moved toward the door amid a chorus of protests, but she would not stay. At the threshold she turned to Miss Lavington.
“Send your things down by the coach,” she said. “If you will let me I will be glad to drive you to the station myself to-morrow.”
When she got to her own study she found a letter thrust under the door with the familiar number of her room scrawled upon it in pencil. She picked it up, and as she looked at the address an expression of profound dislike and weariness came into her face. She opened the door slowly and put the letter down upon her desk, looking at it thoughtfully for a few moments. The handwriting was irresolute and boyish. She shivered slightly as she took the letter up with sudden resolution and tore it open. As she sat there and read it a look of hatred and disgust and utter hopelessness, strangely at variance with her usual brilliant expression, settled harshly upon her lovely, young face.
“My Dearest Wife,” it ran, “Forgive me! but this is about the only luxury I indulge in!—calling you in my letters what I dare not call you as yet before the world.