"I hope not, father," she sighed, a little wistfully. "There are times when I am very dissatisfied with myself, and to-night, I am afraid, is one of them."
"You analyse your sentiments, my dear, too severely," her father told her. "You are too conscientious. Your actions are all that could be desired."
"You won't be lonely if that idiot takes me away from you soon?" she asked.
The Marquis looked almost shocked.
"Loneliness is not a complaint from which I ever expect to suffer, dear," he said, as he rose and opened the door for her.
He returned to his empty chair, his half consumed whisky and soda, his vellum-bound volume, carefully marked. Somehow or other, the echoes of his last words seemed to be ringing in his ears. The fire had burned a little low, the sound of passing vehicles from outside had grown fainter and fainter. He took up his book, threw himself into his chair, gazed with vacant eyes at the thick black print. There was a sudden chill in his heart, a sudden thought, perhaps a fear. There was one way through which loneliness could come.
CHAPTER XVIII
Marcia, who had dreamed all night of blue skies flecked with little fragments of white cloud, a soft west wind and sun-bathed meadows, descended the creaking stairs of the Inn at Fakenham, paused upon the broad landing to admire the great oak chests and the cupboards full of china, and then made her way to the coffee room. She found Borden standing at the window, looking down into the country street and talking with a stranger, whom he left, however, at her entrance. They took their places at the breakfast table to which a waiter ushered them.
"Still lucky," her companion remarked, as he watched Marcia pour out the coffee. "It's going to be another delightful day."