“Of course. But I am prophetic now, for Delia is more than interested, silly chuck! Did you ever read the story of the other Gaston—Sir Gaston—whom this one resembles? No? Well, you will find it thinly disguised in The Knight of Five Joys. He was killed at Naseby, my dear; killed, not by the enemy, but by a page in Rupert’s cavalry. The page was a woman! It’s in this one too. Indian and French blood is a sad tincture. He is not wicked at heart, not at all; but he will do mad things yet, my dear. For he’ll tire of all this, and then—half-mourning for some one!”
Gaston enjoyed talking with Mrs. Gasgoyne as to no one else. Other women often flattered him, she never did. Frankly, crisply, she told him strange truths, and, without mercy, crumbled his wrong opinions. He had a sense of humour, and he enjoyed her keen chastening raillery. Besides, her talk was always an education in the fine lights and shadows of this social life. He came to her now with a smile, greeted her heartily, and then turned to Lady Dargan. Captain Maudsley carried off Mrs. Gasgoyne, and the two were left together—the second time since the evening of Gaston’s arrival, so many months before. Lady Dargan had been abroad, and was just returned.
They talked a little on unimportant things, and presently Lady Dargan said:
“Pardon my asking, but will you tell me why you wore a red ribbon in your button-hole the first night you came?”
He smiled, and then looked at her a little curiously. “My luggage had not come, and I wore an old suit of my father’s.”
Lady Dargan sighed deeply.
“The last night he was in England he wore that coat at dinner,” she murmured.
“Pardon me, Lady Dargan—you put that ribbon there?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes were on him with a candid interest and regard.