Sir Barry Traleigh turns sharply from contemplating the reflection of his own face in the mirror opposite.
"Do you say Miss Litchfield's mother was a negress?"
Mrs. St. James takes up a scarlet ball of silk from her work basket.
"Oh, well," she answers with sarcasm, "I consider Creoles and negroes the same. As I said before, the girl is not to blame, considering everything. Then her mother ran away; why, surely you heard the story. She disappeared; no one knows if she is dead or living. The deepest sympathy was felt for Mr. Litchfield, who, I understand, is a very worthy man. His sister took charge of his home and children. Miss Litchfield has a younger sister home; they were quite young at the time of the trouble, and I believe they think their mother dead."
Mrs. St. James has waited patiently to hear Sir Barry reply, but reply in the way she wished him to; Mrs. St. James gets disappointed.
Sir Barry is thunderstruck. It cannot be possible that Dolores can be connected with any one but those whom any honest man would be willing to take by the hand. There must be some good reason for Dolores' mother leaving her home and family; and to find that reason out will be Sir Barry's future aim. Mrs. St. James goes on in soft, smooth tones.
"You see it places the family in a very perplexing and awkward position. Outside of the friends of the family, I believe no one makes anything of them." Mrs. St. James thinks Sir Barry will appreciate her defence of Miss Litchfield. "Of course the girls are not to blame for their mother's strange behaviour, but you know what the world is."
Yes, Sir Barry, in his wanderings about among persons and places, knew the world, and felt at this moment a fierce desire to punch every head in the world who dared to cast a slur on Dolores, or any one belonging to her. A very great interest he takes in this girl, whom he has not seen over half a dozen times, and who takes special pains to snub him at every opportunity. Mrs. St. James knits on the scarlet wool, contrasting vividly with her marble face and hands. The sunbeams, peeping coyly in through the half closed shutters, catches her diamond rings, and throws around them a hundred glimmering, glistening, sparkling rays. Some one, who has been sitting outside the open window, gets up to go. Sir Barry glances lazily out. He meets Dolores' eyes fixed full upon him—Dolores' pretty, gentle face no longer. Until he dies Sir Barry will remember that agonized, broken-hearted look on Dolores' face. As he turns to Mrs. St. James, he sees—can it be—a satisfied smile on her perfect lips? When he looks again, Dolores is gone.
"Did you see who just passed the window, and of course heard our conversation?" breaks sternly from between Sir Barry's clinched teeth.
"No. Who was it?"