"No! and mother certainly did not mention it in her last. Who is the happy lady—and how long since?"
"You remember Annie St. John? Of course you do, for it was you who did me the favor to first attract my attention toward her."
"Annie St. John!" The tone of the young man had changed suddenly—all the warmth had gone out of it—it might be cold or surprised, or doubting or chagrined—a look of pity or contempt swept plainly over his countenance, but was presently banished.
The physician felt the momentary chill, but threw it off, without reflection, for his mind acknowledged no reason for it.
"I wish you joy—much, much happiness," continued his friend, presently, recovering his natural manner. "I came near to marrying Annie once myself. I never told you of that, did I?" with a light laugh. "But I must hurry on; I am delighting myself with the idea of just stepping in and taking a seat at mother's nice tea-table. Of course I shall come and see you—probably to-morrow."
The traveler hurried on toward the home from which he had been two years absent, and the young physician went forward, but with an uncomfortable feeling for which he could hardly account, except by the levity, the actual rudeness of his friend in his manner of speaking of his bride. Leger Carollyn was not the man to permit undue familiarity toward himself, and much less toward the woman he honored as his wife.
And, although Maurice Gurnell was the dearest and most confidential of his friends among his own sex, he felt the impulse to strike him when he spoke those hateful words with such careless gayety:
"I came near to marrying Annie once myself."
A few moments later brought him in front of his own handsome mansion, and his heart gave a bound which sent every unpleasant impression to the winds as he saw the glow of light through the unclosed shutters, and thought of the one who was awaiting him within. Admitting himself with a night-key, he stole through the spacious drawing-room to the boudoir, at the opposite end, where Annie was sure to be waiting, if, indeed, she did not spring at the lightest sound of his approaching step. She did not meet him to-day, but he saw her, sitting by the little ormolu table, and paused to enjoy a stolen glimpse of her loveliness.
Unconscious of observation, she had taken one of those flower-like attitudes, half-drooping and inexpressibly graceful, peculiar to herself. She held a miniature in her hand, upon which she was gazing, the long lashes vailing her downcast eyes, her golden hair rippling around her throat. She wore a blue dress of some rich material—blue was her husband's favorite color, and it did set off the fairness of her shoulders and the rose-hue of her cheeks most daintily.