She looks pale, but lovely. Her golden hair shines richly against the crimson satin of the cushion on which she leans. As Guy approaches her she never raises her eyes, although without doubt she sees him. Even when he stands beside her and gazes down upon her, wrathful at her insolent disregard, she never pretends to be aware of his near presence.
"Dinner will be ready in three minutes," he says, coldly: "do you intend coming down to-night?"
"Certainly. I am waiting for my cousin," she answers, with her eyes still fixed upon the fire.
"I am sorry to be the conveyer of news that must necessarily cause you disappointment. My mother has had a telegram from Chesney saying he cannot be home until to-morrow. Business detains him."
"He promised me he would return in time for dinner," she says, turning toward him at last, and speaking doubtfully.
"No doubt he is more upset than you can be at his unintended defection. But it is the case for all that. He will not be home to-night."
"Well, I suppose he could not help it."
"I am positive he couldn't!" coldly.
"You have great faith in him," with an unpleasant little smile. "Thank you, Sir Guy: it was very kind of you to bring me such disagreeable news." As she ceases speaking she turns back again to the contemplation of the fire, as though desirous of giving him his congé.