“Too many late parties,” tersely. “Miss Langdon is fagged out.”
“She doesn’t look strong,” admitted Mrs. Fordyce thoughtfully. “But I think her pale cheeks and distrait manner are induced by a love affair.”
“Eh!” Duncan turned toward his mother with unusual sharpness. “Who’s the man?” The question seemed almost forced from him.
“Chichester Barnard.”
“Oh, nonsense.”
“It is not nonsense,” replied Mrs. Fordyce, somewhat nettled by his manner. “I have watched them very closely when they are together, and I am sure I am right.” Duncan rose abruptly and walked over to the window. “Mr. Barnard and Marjorie are both so good looking that they would make an ideal couple.”
“Ideal?” Duncan’s laugh was mirthless. “You are an idealist, mother.”
“Better that than an image breaker,” retorted Mrs. Fordyce. “Now, run along, dear, I must take my usual afternoon nap.”
“All right, mother, I’ll be down in the billiard-room if you should want me.”
Duncan spent an unsatisfactory hour knocking the balls around, then took refuge in the library. Selecting a novel he made himself comfortable before the open fire, and commenced reading. But his attention wandered from the printed page; before him constantly was Marjorie Langdon’s face. Surely he had not found his ideal but to lose her? He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the fireplace, and his mouth set grimly. What chance had his plain features and taciturn manner against Barnard’s handsome face and gay debonair personality? He had inherited his looks and his temperament from some dour Scotch ancestor. It would take a miracle to make him a parlor knight. His book fell with a thud to the floor, and as he stooped to pick it up, the door opened and Marjorie walked in.