Mr. Forbes passed the evening on the divan in the boudoir, while his wife, attired in a negligée of corn-coloured silk, her warm, heavy hair unbound, played Chopin with soft, smothered touch for an hour, then read to him the latest novel. It was one of many evenings, and when he told her that he was the happiest man alive, she remarked to herself: “It would be the same. I love him devotedly. Nevertheless, during these next few weeks he shall not be allowed to forget just how happy I do make him.”
CHAPTER VIII.
Fletcher Cuyler was banging with all his might on the upright piano in one corner of the parlour of his handsome bachelor apartment. The door was thrown open and the servant announced in a solemn voice:
“His Grace, the Duke of Bosworth, sir.”
A bald crown and a broad grin appeared for a moment above the top of the piano.
“Sit down. Make yourself easy while I finish this. It’s a bravura I’m composing.” And he returned to the keys.
“I wish you’d stop that infernal racket,” said the Duke peevishly. “It’s enough to tear the nerves out of a man’s body. Besides, I want to talk to you.”
But Cuyler played out his bravura to the thundering end; then came leaping down the room, swinging his long legs in the air as if they were strung on wires.
The Duke was staring into the fire, huddled together. He looked sullen and miserable.
“Hallo!” cried his host. “What’s up? Anything wrong?”