At the time they rather haunted a young woman who moved in another sphere and whose acquaintance he had made quite adventurously. The name of this young woman was Marie Durand. It was of the latter, not of Fanny Price, that he was thinking.
"No," he repeated. "But was it for Annandale that you asked her for tonight?"
"How perfectly absurd of you, Royal. Have you forgotten that he is in love with Sylvia? I asked her partly for you, partly for Orr."
"Is he coming too! Good Lord! it is going to be ghastly."
But at the side of the room a portière was being drawn and a servant announced:
"Miss Waldron."
With the charming manner of the thoroughbred New York girl a young woman entered. She was tall, willowy, with a face such as those one used to see in keepsakes—delightful things which now, like so many other delightful things, are seen no more.
As she approached Mrs. Loftus, who had risen to greet her, she made a little courtesy.
"Sylvia, this is so dear of you. And is your mother very well?"
Again the portière was drawn. A voice announced: