“Perfectly,” said Mrs. Waring, getting a shade paler, and with a troubled look in her eyes, “you saw her, Mrs. Fellowes,” she said with sudden eagerness, “that night?”
“I did indeed, Gwen’s beauty was a shock to me. But I didn’t know—that is, I thought you were busy.”
“Ah yes, very busy, I remember, but we came out to see Gwen, she was on the stairs, and we got no farther than the door, the lamplight shone on her and cast soft strange lovely shadows on her white silk—it was silk, was it not, Mrs. Fellowes?”—She nodded. “And her arms and neck were like—down—”
“Snow,” murmured her husband.
“No, dear, they looked too warm for that, and her face! We were, I think, a little frightened at its beauty.”
She gave a little shy laugh.
“We should have come out, but just then I do not think I could have spoken. My husband thought I was not very well and he brought me back—Henry spoils me, Mrs. Fellowes—but to-day I shall never forget Gwen’s look, never!” and her small face got still one shade whiter.
She tried to say something but she only made a little husky noise, she turned to Mrs. Fellowes and tried again.
“You know Gwen,” she said faintly, “do you think she was happy to-day, as a bride should be?”
Mrs. Fellowes looked keenly at her and turned to her husband.