Devereaux did not even hear the laughter of the piqued little flirt. He could think of nothing but his keen disappointment over Liane. He returned to his hotel in the sulks.
After all his pleasant anticipations, his disappointment was keen and bitter.
"How can I wait until to-morrow?" he muttered, throwing himself down disconsolately into a chair.
Suddenly a messenger entered with a telegram, and, tearing it hastily open, he read:
Come at once. Father has had a stroke of apoplexy.
Lyde.
Lyde was his only sister, married a year before, and a leader in society. He could fancy how helpless she would be at this juncture—the pretty, petted girl.
Filial grief and affection drove even the thought of Liane temporarily from his mind.
Calling in a man to pack his effects, he left on the earliest train for his home in Boston.
But as the train rushed on through the night and darkness, Liane blended with his troubled thoughts, and he resolved that he would write to her at the earliest opportunity. He would not leave the field clear for his enamored rival.