So she sat beside her hostess, consoling herself with pride, and finding it a very dismal sort of thing. Indeed, she was scarcely able to speak, for fear the unsteadiness in her voice might betray her misery.
“Oh, why did I come?” she asked herself. “Oh, why, why didn’t I stay home, and not know how happy every one else is? Here I just have to sit and look on. I’m young, too! Oh, I wish I wasn’t! I wish I was old—old, like father. Then I wouldn’t care!”
“Here’s some one else who doesn’t care for dancing,” remarked Mrs. Wilkinson, and beckoned to a newcomer who had strolled casually in through the open French window. “It’s Francis Dumall. You know the Dumalls, don’t you?”
The history of the Dumalls had been familiar to Benedicta from her infancy. Like the Millers, they had come down in the world; but not sadly and slowly like the Millers, or generation by generation. Paul Dumall had caused the disaster alone and unaided, and had brought down his family with a crash.
There was nothing discreditable in the debacle. Dumall had ruined himself like a gentleman, and had aroused nothing but sympathy. What is more, he had died before becoming vieux jeu, like poor Mr. Miller, and he was now a sort of legend. His wife and child had gone away, no one knew where.
“And this must be the son,” thought Benedicta.
She was pleased and a little excited at the idea of meeting some one with a history so like her own—some one fallen from greatness like herself, suffering the same humiliation and sadness. She would have liked this young man, even if he hadn’t been so very likable.
He was a tall, slight fellow, a perfect Dumall, with gray eyes, fair hair, and the fine, big Dumall nose. He was not handsome, but he was agreeable to look at, because of his kind and rather shy smile, and the sensitive intelligence of his face.[Pg 133]
He was presented to Benedicta, and they looked at each other with rather artless curiosity. How many Millers and Dumalls had met in the past, in circumstances so different! Indeed, a Dumall had once married a Miller, long ago, so that they were distantly related.
“Sit down, Francis,” said the hospitable Mrs. Wilkinson.