Gertrude glanced in the direction taken by her sister’s eyes, and her heart seemed to be compressed as by a cold hand, as she turned indignantly to her sister.
“Renée!” she said, in a horrified whisper, “oh, do not say you care for him still!”
“Gertrude!” cried Renée, catching her hand, “how dare you say that! I hate—I detest him! I thought him a gentleman once, and I did love him; but that was over when I married Frank, and since then he has haunted me; he follows me everywhere, and Frank makes him his constant companion, and he leads him away.”
“Oh, this is dreadful!”
“Dreadful!” cried Renée, “I feel at times that I cannot bear it. Come away: he has seen us, and is coming here.”
“Is—is that Mr Huish?” whispered Gertrude, gazing in another direction.
“Yes. Who is the dark lady on his arm?”
“I do not know,” said Gertrude quietly. “Some friend, perhaps; but, look, is not that Frank?”
She drew her sister’s attention towards a phaeton in which Frank Morrison was driving a handsome-looking woman dressed in the height of fashion; and directly Renée saw him plainly the Major came up.
“What a delightful meeting, Miss Millet!” he said. “Mrs Morrison, I hope I shall not be de trop?”