Finally she added, with an effort:
“I heard this morning the wedding is already fixed for June. It’s to be one of the weddings of the season”; and her lips curled somewhat.
“I’m more sorry for her than for you, Hal,” he said quietly. “You’ve a lot of splendid years before you yet. Heaven only knows what’s ahead of her. I doubt he’ll not give her much beside his name for his share of the bargain.”
She made no comment, leaning back in her corner, white and tired. It was difficult to imagine anything ever being splendid again just then; or any man ever seeming other than tame, after Sir Edwin’s clever, virile, interesting personality.
But Dick had judged wisely in suggesting the trip down East. Anything West would merely have recalled painful memories. The East of London was new to her, and could not fail to be interesting to any one with Hal’s love of her fellows.
They went to a large parish hall, where Quin was in charge for a social evening of dancing and music. Factory girls were there in all their tawdry finery to dance; rough, boisterous youths mostly made fun of them; tired, white-faced, over-worked middle-aged women sat round the walls, laughing weakly, but forgetting the drudgery for a little while. At one end of the room older men sat and smoked, and looked at illustrated periodicals.
Hal entered with Quin and Dick on either side of her, and was immediately accosted by a young lady, with a longer and straighter feather than most of them, with the remark:
“Hullo, miss!… which of ’em’s yer sweet’eart?”
A burst of laughter greeted this sally, but Hal, not in the least disconcerted, replied:
“Why, both, of course… I’ll be bound you’ve had two at a time often enough.”