Brilliant and witty she, so to speak, kept her devoted adherents at bay, her beautiful face lit up with the smile which so many found so falsely fascinating, her eyes shining like the gems in her hair. Never had she appeared so beautiful, so irresistible.
Regarding her even most critically one would have assented to the proposition that certainly if any woman in the world was happy that night it was Lady Isabel Earlsley.
And yet beneath all her brilliance Lady Bell was hiding an aching heart. Half the country was there at her feet, and only one of all her invited guests absent, and he a poor, tireless, ne’er-do-well. But Lady Bell would willingly, joyfully have exchanged them all for that one man, for that scapegrace with the bold, handsome face and frank, fearless eyes.
Since mid-day she had been expecting him. Like Una, her eyes had wandered to the clock, and she had told the minutes over; but he had not come, and now, with that false gayety of despair, she was striving, fighting hard to forget him.
But her eyes and ears refused to obey her will, and were still watching and waiting, and suddenly her glance, wandering over her fan, saw a figure standing in the doorway.
It was not a man’s, it was that of Laura Treherne’s—Mary Burns.
Not one of them around her noticed any difference in her smile or guessed why she dismissed them so easily and naturally. She did not even march straight for the door, but making a circuit, gradually reached the hall.
Pale and calm and self-possessed as usual, the strange maid was waiting for her.
“Well!” said Lady Bell, and her voice was scarcely above a whisper. “Has—has he come?”
“No,” said Laura Treherne. “But though your ladyship told me only to let you know of Mr. Newcombe’s arrival, I thought it best to bring you this letter.”