Quite unknown to him, his elegant home had been undergoing repairs for months.
“There will be nothing wanting for the reception of his bride,” she said, viewing the magnificent suites of rooms which contained every luxury that taste could suggest or money procure.
Then came Rex’s letter like a thunderbolt from a clear sky begging her not to mention the subject again, as he could never marry Pluma Hurlhurst.
“I shall make a flying trip home,” he said, “then I am going abroad.”
She did not notice how white and worn her boy’s handsome face had grown when she greeted him the night before, in the flickering light of the chandelier. She would not speak to him then of the subject uppermost in her mind.
“Retire to your room at once, Rex,” she said, “your journey has wearied you. See, it is past midnight already. I will await you to-morrow morning in my boudoir; we will breakfast there together.”
She leaned back against the crimson velvet cushions, tapping her satin quilted slipper restlessly on the thick velvet carpet, ever and anon glancing at her jeweled watch, wondering what could possibly detain Rex.
She heard the sound of a quick, familiar footstep in the corridor; a moment later Rex was by her side. As she stooped down to kiss his face she noticed, in the clear morning light, how changed he was. Her jeweled hands lingered on his dark curls and touched his bright, proud face. “What had come over this handsome, impetuous son of hers?” she asked herself.
“You have been ill, Rex,” she said, anxiously, “and you have not told me.”