It was nearly half an hour before she came to him, and whatever feelings his sudden arrival had excited she had had time to conceal them. She came to him buttoning her gloves, and followed by her maid carrying her opera cloak. The latter withdrew discreetly. Strone rose up—a strange figure enough, with his wind-tossed hair and burning eyes.
“You?” she exclaimed, with raised eyebrows. “How wonderful!”
The sight of her, the sound of her voice, were fuel to his smoldering passion. His heart was hot with the love of her.
“Is it true?” he asked fiercely. “I have seen your brother. He says that you are going to marry Lord Sydenham.”
She looked at him in faint surprise.
“And why on earth should I not marry Lord Sydenham?” she asked.
It was like a sudden chill. She was angry, then, or she did not care. Yet there had been times when she had looked at him indifferently. He made an effort at repression.
“There is no reason why you should not,” he admitted. “There is no reason why you should not tell me—if it be true. For God’s sake, tell me!”
“It is perfectly true,” she answered.
“Lord Sydenham is nothing to you,” he cried.