A brief hesitation was ended by Paul Desfrayne accepting this free-and-easy invitation.
The two young men then shook hands and parted, with the agreement to meet again for a six-o’clock dinner.
Truly, times, places, and things had altered since those days at Turin, the recollection of which seemed to bring scant pleasure to Paul Desfrayne’s weary heart.
“Some fatal secret has become ingrained with that man’s life,” said the young lawyer, as he closed the door upon his visitor. “Great heavens! that Lois Turquand should spurn my love, and be thrown, perhaps, into the unwilling arms of a man like this, with such a hunted, half-guilty look in his eyes! It shall not be—it cannot be! Fate could not be so cruel!”
CHAPTER III.
LOIS TURQUAND’S EMBARRASSMENT.
The sun, that was shut out by towering walls from the busy city, like some intrusive idler, was lying, half-slumbrously, like some magnificent Eastern slave arrayed in jewels and gold, among the brilliant-hued and many-scented flowers heaped under the striped Venetian blinds stretched over the balconies of a mansion in Lowndes Square.
An occasional soft breeze lifted the curtains lowered over the windows, granting a transient vision of apartments replete with luxury, glowing under the influence of an exquisitely delicate taste.
Within the principal drawing-room sat a stately matron, with silver-white hair, attired in full evening costume, apparently awaiting the arrival of expected guests.
Lady Quaintree was handsome, even at sixty, with a soft, clear skin, and a complexion girlishly brilliant; a figure full, without being dangerously stout; a most wondrously dainty hand, on which sparkled clusters of rings that might have formed a king’s ransom. Her ladyship had been a beauty in her youth—not a spoiled, ill-humored beauty, but one kind and indulgent, much flattered and loved, taking adoration as her due, as a queen accepts all the rights and privileges of her position.