Lucie paused, and gazing in vague trouble after her rapidly disappearing visitor, murmured to herself, "Who is she?"
But the one who could have answered her was gone.
"Carleton, you seldom see such a woman. Younger than I, she had the poise of a woman of thirty. Who could she have been?"
"Describe her."
"I wish I could; I hardly saw her face; it was her figure, her voice, her way of moving and holding herself. I felt as small and quiet as a little mouse beside her. Only I was happy and she was not. That much I feel now that I recall her look in leaving."
"Was she American or—or foreign?" he asked, hiding his trouble, for a great fear had seized him.
"She had an English accent which added very much to her charm."
"Forget her." For a moment his accent was almost fierce, then he laughed the matter off, assuring this bride of a month that she made him cross with her self-depreciation, that there was no one of finer mien and manner than herself, the chosen of his heart upon whom he always looked with pride. Which subtle tribute to what was her greatest charm accomplished its end; she did forget the stranger.
But he did not; he knew what was before him and prepared himself for the inevitable meeting which would be followed by—what?