He stared at her blankly, incredulously, as she sat in the ancient chair, with its great carved crown showing above the masses of sunny hair, her delicate hands resting on its massive arms, her graceful slimness thrown out into relief by its broad leather back.
She looked dazzling in her mother’s pearls and a silver spangled gown. Almost like some stately young sovereign, enthroned among her subjects.
And yet it was the same little face that had haunted him all these years—the same that had been pressed against the window-pane one April night, in passionate farewell.
“May I have the pleasure of a dance?” he asked, after a moment’s hesitation.
“Thank you, I don’t dance,” she answered inarticulately, as she pressed on the knobs of the arm-chair with trembling hands.
“Then may we sit it out?”
She bowed, without raising her eyes.
“What a queer, nervous sort of girl!” thought Mrs. Hampton, as she moved away.
To Major Doran it seemed almost incredible. But these delicate patrician features, and the rich, soft brogue, both belonged to Mary Foley. She was curiously reserved, and cold. Had her sudden uprise turned her head? Did Lady Joseline Mulgrave hate to recall the old days, when she was the inferior, and dropped curtseys to him?
“Lady Joseline,” he said, on a sudden impulse, “may I ask you a question?”