"Lady Munro" was the name on the card; an address in Gloucester Place, Portman Square, was scrawled in the corner; and on the back in pencil—
"So sorry to miss you. You must dine with us without fail on Friday at eight. No refusal."
A pleased smile crossed Mona's face.
"She is spoiling the story," she said. Then the smile was chased away by a frown.
"If only the story had not spoiled itself!"
And then she bethought herself of the letter she had posted.
CHAPTER IV.
SIR DOUGLAS.
When Friday evening came, Mona took a curious pleasure in making the very most of herself.
She knew, as well as any outsider could have told her, that her present depression and apathy were but the measure of the passionate enthusiasm with which she had lived the life of her choice; and yet it was inevitable that for the time she should look at life wholly on the shadowed side. Past and future seemed alike gloomy and forbidding—"Grau, grau, gleichgültig grau"—and the eager, unconscious protest of youth against such a destiny, took the form of a resolution to enjoy to the utmost this glimpse of brightness and colour. She would forget all but the present; new surroundings should find her for the moment a new being.