The afternoon was well advanced when Scott returned to Perrythorpe Court. No sounds of revelry greeted him as he entered. A blazing fire was burning in the hall, but no one was there to enjoy the warmth. The gay crowd that had clustered before the great hearth only yesterday had all dispersed. The place was empty.
"Can I get you anything, sir?" enquired the man who admitted him.
His voice was sepulchral. Scott smiled a little. "Yes, please. A whisky and soda. Where is everybody?"
"The Colonel and Miss Rose went out riding, sir, after the guests had all gone, and they have not yet returned. Her ladyship is resting in her room."
"Everyone gone but me?" questioned Scott, with a whimsical lift of the eyebrows.
The man bent his head decorously. "I believe so, sir. There was a general feeling that it would be more fitting as the marriage was not to take place as arranged. I understand, sir, that the family will shortly migrate to town."
"Really?" said Scott.
He bent over the fire, for the evening was chilly, and he was tired to the soul. The man coughed and withdrew. Again the silence fell.
A face he knew began to look up at Scott out of the leaping flames—a face that was laughing and provocative one moment, wistful and tear-stained the next.
He heaved a sigh as he followed the fleeting vision. "Will she ever be happy again?" he asked himself.