She was but a young thing. The spin may have affected her to giddiness; and she had retired to rest awhile.
This was the reasoning of those who chanced to think of it.
They were not many. The charmers in wide skirts had enough to do thinking of themselves; the dowagers had betaken themselves to quiet whist in the antechambers: and the absence of Blanche Vernon brought no blight upon the general enjoyment.
But the absence of her father did—that is, his absence of mind. During the rest of the evening there was a strangeness in Sir George’s manner noticed by many of his guests; an abstraction, palpably, almost painfully observable. Even his good breeding was not proof against the blow he had sustained!
Despite his efforts to conceal it, his more intimate acquaintances could see that something had gone astray.
Its effect was to put a damper on the night’s hilarity; and perhaps earlier than would have otherwise happened were the impatient coachmen outside released from their chill waiting upon the sweep.
And earlier, also, did the guests staying at the house retire to their separate sleeping apartments.
Sir George did not go direct to his; but first to his library.
He went not alone. Frank Scudamore accompanied him.
He did so, at the request of his uncle, after the others had said good-night.