“You must be super-sensitive. I saw no promise of tears.”
“The actors conceal their feelings; only the spectators may suffer theirs to be seen. Look how grave Miss Dalrymple is!”
Wareham glanced. Anne stood where he had last noticed her, apparently listening to her companion, and it was true that she appeared to be grave and preoccupied. Hers was a face in which beauty played capriciously, and at this moment the lines justified his charge of hardness.
“Merely bored, I should say, and not troubling herself to hide it.”
Millie put a sudden question.
“Wasn’t there some story, some engagement, in which Miss Dalrymple was mixed up? I am sure there was something one ought to remember.”
Wareham did not feel himself called upon to assist in this mental examination.
“With her beauty she is likely enough to be talked over,” was all he said. But Millie persisted.
“I am certain there was a sort of sensation—I must ask mother, for I am suddenly seized with curiosity. What was it? Wasn’t there—?” She broke off, and in a moment looked up triumphantly. “Of course! How stupid of me! Now it comes back. She was engaged to a son of Sir Michael Forbes. Didn’t you hear of it? Oh, I am sure you did! The wedding day was actually fixed, and everything arranged, and the next thing one heard was that it was at an end. How could I have forgotten!”
Wareham was silent. She looked at him in surprise.