"Oh!" thought the Duchess, "I imagined it was Charity. Was I mistaken then? Not about the girl, if those rosy cheeks are to be trusted."
"Why isn't Mr. Warde here?" she asked of Marjorie, who, in obedience to her gesture, turned with her towards the house.
"He is at the cathedral. It is his week."
And the Duchess thought she guessed rightly the reason of the agitation she detected in Marjorie's voice.
"The Blackton man will be unsuccessful," she settled. "But Charity is pretty enough to console him, and it will be a good marriage for them both."
This great lady was never more happy than when arranging marriages amongst her friends.
Marjorie did not dream how her sudden flush had betrayed her, and forgot lovers and the difficulties they caused when she sat down to the piano. But perhaps it was the perplexity in her mind that conveyed itself to the listener, through the plaintive melody ending in a staccato phrase which fell from her fingers.
The Duchess sat at a little distance, viewing with approval the delicate face, framed in its bright hair.
"Hush! Barbe, don't call!" entreated Sandy.—p. 168.