“Miladi does not forget me? I am Pauline.”
“Pauline!” repeated the girl, striving to dispel the dense cloud that shrouded her memory.
“Yes, miladi. I dressed you for your marriage that sad, sad morning.” Pauline spoke slowly. “Can miladi not remember now?” she added, softly.
Margery looked at her strangely and intently.
“I can remember nothing—I seem to be in a dream.”
She put up her left hand to push back the clusters of her hair, and as it fell again to the silken coverlet she gazed at it intently. It looked frail and white, and on the third finger was a ring—a plain, wide band of gold.
The maid touched her hand.
“It is miladi’s wedding ring,” she said, divining the thoughts of wonder and the speculation that were filling Margery’s mind.
“My wedding ring!” echoed the girl, still wonderingly. “Am I married, then?”
Pauline looked at her mistress in alarm. Had the fever really touched her brain? She almost feared it.