“The worst has happened.”
It was the morning after the concert, and the sedulous Despencer had called upon his exacting patroness, as in duty bound. The marchioness had only just descended; she had made a hurried toilette, and in consequence the pearl powder was not quite so delicately shaded off round her neck as usual, and her waist was at least half an inch wider than its wont.
Such touching traces of maternal anxiety were not lost on the observant Despencer. There is no eye like that of love.
“Why, what is it? You alarm me,” he said, lazily sinking into a chair in front of the marchioness. They were in her boudoir, an apartment which ladies reserve for the reception of gentlemen who do not happen to be married to them. The Marquis of Severn had not been in his wife’s boudoir for ten years.
“That man Hammond has had the audacity to send a note to Victoria this morning asking her to release him from their engagement,” the marchioness announced.
“Why on earth has he done that?”
“He says he finds he has mistaken the nature of his feelings for her,” said the marchioness, with fine scorn.
“What a ridiculous idea! As if his feelings had anything to do with it! The man must be a scoundrel.”
“He is worse,” said the marchioness with conviction; “he is a fool. Oh, if I had only sent the announcement to the papers last night; then they could neither of them have backed out of it.”
“What does Lady Victoria say?” inquired her friend, cautiously.