Shelton shot another look at Antonia; her face was frigid. “I hate your d—-d superiority!” he thought, staring at the Connoisseur.
“There's nothing,” said that gentleman, “more enthralling than starvation. Come, Mr Shelton.”
“I can't tell stories,” said Shelton; “never could.”
He cared not a straw for Ferrand, his coming, going, or his history; for, looking at Antonia, his heart was heavy.
CHAPTER XXX
THE LADY FROM BEYOND
The morning was sultry, brooding, steamy. Antonia was at her music, and from the room where Shelton tried to fix attention on a book he could hear her practising her scales with a cold fury that cast an added gloom upon his spirit. He did not see her until lunch, and then she again sat next the Connoisseur. Her cheeks were pale, but there was something feverish in her chatter to her neighbour; she still refused to look at Shelton. He felt very miserable. After lunch, when most of them had left the table, the rest fell to discussing country neighbours.
“Of course,” said Mrs. Dennant, “there are the Foliots; but nobody calls on them.”
“Ah!” said the Connoisseur, “the Foliots—the Foliots—the people—er—who—quite so!”