"I wonder if it will come off with Katie, after all?" exclaimed Carrie. "She is the girl he used to ride with in the park last year, is she not?—very freckled, with high shoulders. She comes to our church. I wonder what he sees in her?" she added.
"It is his father, my dear, who sees everything in her: her property 'march,' as they call it, with the Lingard estates."
"And so she is to be Mrs. Gilbert Lisle?"
"I believe so." And with this remark the subject dropped.
Helen had listened to this conversation with crimson face and throbbing heart. Everything was accounted for now; he had been simply amusing himself with her. This man, who was accustomed to be made much of by London beauties, who was eagerly sought for by house parties in country houses—was it likely that he would be really serious in making love to an obscure girl like herself, a girl whom he had come across in his wanderings among savage islands? "No," she told herself, "not at all likely; his actions spoke for him. He had been simply seeing how much she would believe, repeating a rôle that he had doubtless played dozens of times previously. And during his wanderings his wealthy destined bride, Miss Calderwood, was all the time awaiting him in England. She was to be Mrs. Gilbert Lisle."
"I do declare you have stitched that on the wrong side out! What can you have been thinking of?" demanded Clara very sharply, when her fashionable friend had departed. "You will have to rip it, and put it on properly. Your wits must have been wool-gathering!"
If Clara had known where her cousin's thoughts had been, she would have been very much surprised for once in her life, and ejaculated her favourite exclamation, "Fancy, just fancy!" with unusual animation.
The day after this visit Helen was asked to accompany her cousin Carrie on foot to Bond Street, not an unusual honour. She was useful for carrying small parcels; true, her mourning was shabby, but none of the Platts' acquaintances knew who she was, and, if the worst came to the worst, she might pass as a superior-looking lady's-maid. On their way back from the shops Carrie took it into her head to take a turn in the park. It was about twelve o'clock, and the Row was gay with a fashionable throng of pedestrians. Carrie met several friends, to whom she gave a bow here and a nod there, and Helen, to her great amazement, recognized one while yet afar off, and, although garbed in a frock coat and tall hat—yes, she actually beheld Mr. Quentin coming towards her, walking with a very well-dressed woman, and followed by two red dachshunds. She was positive that the recognition was mutual, and was pleased in her present barren life to hail any acquaintance from Port Blair—even him! When they came almost face to face she bowed and smiled, and would have stopped, but he merely glanced at her as if she were some most casual acquaintance, swept off his hat, and passed on. Evidently Port Blair and Rotten Row were two very different places.
A flood of scarlet rushed over her face, which her quick-eyed companion did not fail to notice, and said—
"Who is that gentleman?"