“All this is very strange to me, child, and for my life I cannot understand why you should be so anxious to see Frank Laurier, but I cannot resist your frenzied appeals, they touch me too deeply. He is in there. Go in and speak to him!” waving her jeweled hand toward the closed portières of a room on the left of the magnificent corridor.
With a strangled sob, Jessie sprang toward the curtains. Impelled by sympathy she could not understand, Mrs. Dalrymple followed her footsteps.
Frank Laurier was lying at ease on a sofa with one foot on a cushion—having sustained a severe sprain to one ankle that would keep him Mrs. Dalrymple’s welcome guest for several days. Some strips of court plaster on the side of his face slightly marred his beauty to an ordinary observer, but not to Jessie Lyndon, who, advancing at first with slow, awed footsteps, suddenly stopped, stared, then flew across the room to the sofa, murmuring in joyful incredulity:
“Alive! Alive!”
She sank on one knee, and pressed her lips tenderly on one hand that was thrown carelessly above his head.
“Why, that wicked woman told me you were dead! And I—I——” the sweet voice faltered.
A low, derisive laugh rang on the air, and, lifting her eyes, Jessie saw that they were not alone.
It was Cora Ellyson who had laughed, as with flashing eyes she pushed Jessie away from Frank’s side.
“Go away, you bold girl, how dare you force your way in here to annoy Mr. Laurier?” she cried angrily.
“Annoy him; I—it is not true! Do I annoy you?” pleaded Jessie tremulously, turning to the young man whose handsome face twitched with pain as he answered impatiently: