My father’s wife was not visible when we reached home, and my father told me she was dressing, and would not come down till dinner was on the table.
“I did not know,” he said, “that friends were to dine with us to-night. I should have liked the three of us to spend the evening together, but there will be plenty of opportunities.”
We both retired to dress for dinner, and upon my re-entering the room the guests were arriving—fifteen or sixteen of them. They were all strangers to me, and as I was introduced to them by my father an uncomfortable impression forced itself upon me that they were not persons who moved in the first class. There were two foreign noblemen among them whose titles I doubted, and an American upon whose shirt-front was stamped Shoddy. Scarcely a moment before dinner was announced, my father’s wife entered.
“Frederick,” said my father, “this is my wife. My dear, this is my son, of whom I have spoken so much.”
Then dinner was announced, and my father said:
“Frederick, you will take in Mrs. Holdfast.”
What with the ceremonious bow with which my father’s wife received me, and the bustle occasioned by the announcement of dinner, I had not time to look into the lady’s face until her hand was on my arm. When I did look at her I uttered a smothered cry, for the woman I was escorting to dinner was no other than Grace, through whose abominable treachery my friend Sydney Campbell had met his death.
The shock of the discovery was so overwhelming that I lost my self-possession. I felt as if the scene on that dreadful night were being enacted over again, and as we moved onwards to the dining-room I repeated the words uttered by Sydney to Grace, which had rang in my ears again and again, “Rest content. You have broken my heart. Either I was not worthy of you, or you were not worthy of me. The play is over; drop the curtain!”
The voice of my father’s wife recalled me to myself.