Virginia, more in reply to the glance than as a result of the news, coloured divinely. She had put on her very sweetest gown. It was a survival of Lissendean days, carefully altered by the finger of genius, so that it looked to be the very latest. It was pale blue, with touches of faint periwinkle mauve: and young Bent, as he gazed, was trying to decide which colour matched her eyes more nearly.
She was hurt. The news wounded. She had spent this fairy fortnight in luxury and also in a dream of happiness. She had not singled out Gerald as anything more than one factor in her bliss. He was just a part of a scheme of things which must be injured by any interference.
So unconscious was she of any deeper significance, that she turned at once to Mr. Rosenberg, lifting to him the eyes that even he found a difficulty in resisting, and cried impulsively:
"Do you mean that Gerald is gone—that I shall not see him again before I leave?"
"Why, if you are leaving in course of the next few days, I fear not," said the hypocrite. "He was not pleased, as you may imagine. But business is sometimes urgent, you know. Had he not gone, I must have done so myself: and he thought a night journey to Liverpool rather much to expect from a man of my age who had a son to send. Eh?"
"Of course," murmured Virginia. "But it is a pity! Spoils our last evening!"
"Oh, now, now, Miss Virginia! That is a little rough upon poor Bent, who has rallied up at a moment's notice to make your party complete. Confess now—in the lamentable circumstances, could I have done better? Eh? I think not. There is dinner announced. Come, take my arm. Mims must divide herself between the two young men."