“I shall proudly treasure it, for without doubt its chrysalis chastity is jealous of its human rival, hence the parting of the two flowers. Is it not so?” questioned Rutley, with the most winsome, yet grave smile he could fashion.
“Hazel—the Lady Beauchamp, sounds quite recherche,” Mrs. Harris whispered to Mr. Harris.
“Looks as if it might be a go,” he responded in like tones.
“It is white and pretty,” Hazel murmured, casting a demure glance at her own faultlessly white dress and then naively remarked, while a serious question stole over her countenance:
“I have just come from the water front, where I have been watching the men drag for poor little Dorothy.”
“Poor child! So sad to be drowned!” said Mrs. Harris, in a reflective mood.
“Or stolen!” exclaimed Mr. Harris. “I shall not give up hope until that old cripple is located.”
Only Hazel noticed the swift glance Rutley shot at Mr. Harris, but she gave it no significance.
“Poor fellow, he feels the loss of his child very deeply,” continued Mr. Harris. “Yesterday Thorpe was in one of the boats for three hours. My Lord may see them dragging the river from the piazza.” Whereupon Mr. Harris and Rutley went out on the piazza, leaving Mrs. Harris and Hazel by themselves.
“Hazel, dear,” spoke Mrs. Harris softly and confidentially, “there is a lady’s tiara awaiting you, if my judgment is not faulty.”