"Howard Templeton!"
[CHAPTER XXVII.]
A gentleman, standing alone beside a marble fountain, turns with a start and looks at her. His face is handsome, eager, agitated.
"Mrs. St. John," he says; then a strange constraint seems to fall upon both. They remain standing still and regarding each other in painful silence.
It is the first time they have met since the day of her terrible humiliation, more than two months ago. In the passionate war they waged he had been the victor. One would think that he would meet her now with words of exultation.
Yet he is silent, and a dark-red flush creeps slowly up his temples, while his handsome blue eyes regard her with a strange intentness.
To the day of his death he remembers her as she looks now. Not the expression of a feature, not a fold of her robe escapes his memory.
She looks like some beautiful, pale statue.
"Gown'd in pure white that fitted to the shape—
A single stream of all her soft, dark curls
Pour'd on one side."