She was in the drawing-room, the butler said.
With triumph—a sort of triumph—in his heart, and on his face, he ascended the staircase.
He thought that he had never before seen her look so beautiful. Surely there was triumph on her face as well! It was glowing, and her eyes were more lustrous even than usual. She had plainly just returned, for she had on a travelling dress.
“Beatrice, you saw the newspapers? You saw that I have done it?” he cried, exultantly.
“Done what?” she inquired. “I have seen no newspaper to-day.”
“What? Is it possible that you have not heard that I voted last night for the Amendment?” he cried.
“I heard nothing,” she replied.
“I wrote a telegram last evening, telling you that I meant to do it, but it appears that the office at Netherford closes at six, so it could not be sent. I did not know how much you were to me until yesterday, Beatrice.”
“Stop,” she said. “I was married to Harold Wynne an hour ago.”
He looked at her for some moments, and then dropped into a chair.