"I will draw down the blind, and you must try to sleep."
"Hark to the bells!" Griselda said. "They sound like joy-bells—joy-bells. They ought to be funeral bells."
"It is Sunday afternoon! They ring for service in the churches."
Then Griselda turned her head away, saying:
"Sunday! What a Sunday this has been! Sunday—Sabbath, Graves calls it—a day of rest—rather, a day of strife, and sin, and sorrow."
Yes; it had been a Sunday never to be forgotten by those who were concerned in that day's work.
Long before the evening shadows fell over the city, the story of Sir Maxwell Danby's duel with Leslie Travers was circulating in the various coteries of Bath society.
The gay world expressed pity and surprise.
The gossips' tongues were busy about the beautiful lady, who had been the cause of the melancholy affair.
That she was the daughter of an actor, who was on that very afternoon laid in his hastily-dug grave, was a shock to the feelings of the élite amongst whom Griselda Mainwaring had been considered worthy to be reckoned, by the unwritten laws of social etiquette.