CHAPTER VII.
HON. LIEUTENANT REGINALD STANFORD.
Rose Danton's slumbers were unusually disturbed that night. Mr. Reinecourt haunted her awake, Mr. Reinecourt haunted her asleep. What was the eventful morrow to reveal? Would he tell her he loved her? Would he ask her to be his wife? Did he care for her, or did he mean nothing after all?
No thought of Jules La Touche came to disturb her as she drifted off into delicious memories of the past and ecstatic dreams of the future. No thought of the promise she had given, no remorse at her own falsity, troubled her easy conscience. What did she care for Jules La Touche? What was he beside this splendid Mr. Reinecourt? She thought of him—when she thought of him at all—with angry impatience, and she drew his ring off her finger and flung it across the room.
"What a fool I was," she thought, "ever to dream of marrying that silly boy! Thank heaven I never told any one but Grace."
Rose was feverish with impatience and anticipation when morning came. She sat down to breakfast, tried to eat, and drink, and talk as usual, and failed in all. As soon as the meal was over, unable to wait, she dressed and ordered her horse. Doctor Frank was sauntering up the avenue, smoking a cigar in the cold February sunshine, as she rode off.
"Away so early, Di Vernon, and unescorted? May I—"
"No," said Rose, brusquely, "you may not. Good morning!"
Doctor Frank glanced after her as she galloped out of sight.