“I am glad the last ball was such a successful one,” he said, placing a chair for her, and then, going over to the mantel, he stood and faced her.
“It was a beautiful ball,” said Margaret; “the rooms were exquisite.”
“Were they supplied with mirrors?” he asked, folding his arms as he looked down at her, steadily.
“Mirrors? Oh yes; there were plenty of mirrors.”
“And did you make use of them, I wonder, Miss Trevennon? Do you know just how you look, in that beautiful soft gown, with the lovely white fur around your neck and arms? I should fancy it might tempt one to the mermaid fashion of carrying a mirror at the girdle.”
He smiled as he spoke—a resolute, odd smile that had little merriment in it.
“What have you been doing, all this time?” she asked, wishing to lead the conversation away from herself.
“Working,” he answered; “writing letters—doing sums—drawing plans.”
“How you love your work!” she said.
“Yes, I love my work, thank God!” he answered, in a fervid tone. “It has been my best friend all my life, and all my dreams for the future are in it now.”