“Where is Mrs. Porter?” he inquired presently.
“Breakfasting upstairs, sir.” Murray, who had brought in a fresh supply of coffee, hastened to fill Wyndham’s empty cup. “Selby is serving her and Miss Dorothy in the boudoir. Have another muffin, sir?”
As Wyndham attacked his third muffin with unabated appetite, Dorothy Deane strolled into the dining-room, and he rose to place a chair for her, his face brightening at her entrance.
“It was very unkind of you not to wait and have breakfast with me,” he said reproachfully, as she declined Murray’s offer of a cup of hot coffee.
“Mrs. Porter asked me to stay with her. I only ran down thinking that Vera might be getting her breakfast.”
Wyndham looked as hurt as he felt. “I am sorry—” he said stiffly.
Impulsively Dorothy extended her hand and he clasped it eagerly, and Murray, his solemn countenance relieved by a sympathetic smile, discreetly vanished.
“Don’t,” she pleaded brokenly, “don’t find fault with me. I—I can’t stand it from you.”
Wyndham saw that her eyes were brimming with tears. The next instant she was in his arms, and as he caught the passionate light in her eyes his heart swelled with thanksgiving, the irresistible force of love had conquered the constraint growing between them. But his moment of rejoicing was short lived as, regaining some semblance of composure, she quietly unclasped his hands and rose.
“We are both mad, Hugh,” she said, with a pitiful attempt at a smile. “Under existing circumstances we cannot be married.”