"Who is that--standing yonder--receiving the company?" he asked hastily. "It looks like no; it cannot be. Is it Adeline?"
"Yes, it is Adeline de Castella," replied Rose, under her breath, her teeth chattering. "She is holding her reception."
Adeline de Castella. Did the name strike oddly upon Mr. St. John? But if it did, how then came he not to ask why it was not Adeline de la Chasse?
"You have deceived me, Miss Darling," he said in severe tones; "you assured me the family were not here. What means all this?"
"They are not here," whispered Rose, whose face and lips were now as white as those of the dead.
"Not here! There stands Adeline."
"Yes, true; Adeline," she murmured. "But she will not speak to you. You--you will pass and look at her: as we look at a picture. You can't go back now, if you would: see the throng. Trust me for once," she added, as she seized his arm: "Adeline will not speak to you--she will not, as I live and breathe."
Partly from the extreme difficulty of retreating, for they were in the line of advance, not in that formed for returning according to the arrangements of the room, partly in compliance with Rose Darling's agitated earnestness, and partly yielding to his own curiosity, which was becoming intensely excited, Mr. St. John continued his way, ever and anon catching a glimpse of the rigid form opposite, before which all were filing.
"It cannot be Adeline!" he exclaimed, involuntarily. "And yet it is like her! Who is it? What is it? How strange she looks!"
"She has been ill, you see," shivered Rose, "and is much attenuated. But it is Adeline."