Finetta's face, pale a moment before, grew white.
"That's her," she muttered. "And he is going to marry her. Polly's right; she's beautiful. Beautiful, and different to me. He'll marry and love her."
Her head drooped and her lips set tightly, and then she rode on. But suddenly she stopped the horse under some trees and looked back.
The beautiful girl with the soft brown eyes had stopped beside the rail, and Yorke and she were shaking hands.
Finetta could see their faces distinctly, and she watched, scanned his eagerly.
A singular expression came into her bold, handsome face.
"It's not her he's thinking of," she said; "not her. There's the same look in his eyes as when he looked up at me. What is it? I'll find out to-night." Her white teeth came together with a click. "I feel like fighting to-day. Going to marry Lady Eleanor, is he? We'll see! Oh, Yorke, if—if——." She looked round at the aristocrats riding past. "There isn't one that could love you as I do."