Penelope.
CHAPTER XII.
ONE AND THE SAME.
At the sight of Penelope Richard was dumbfounded.
He stifled a first impulse to spring to his feet and greet her when he saw her stern, white and reproachful face, and sitting still tried slyly to drop Dido’s hand.
With an almost imperceptible bow of recognition, Penelope went on after her aunt and a gentleman who, unnoticed, had in advance passed Dick and his companion.
“D—— it!” said Dick, warmly, in an undertone, and then he thought: “I’m in for it now. Penelope will never believe that thinking of my love for her made me feel a great pity for this lonely girl. She will say I was making love to her, because I held her hand, and she will never forgive it. What an ass I am to risk a life-time of happiness with Penelope, just to sympathize with a girl whose life is lonely, and yet, poor little devil—It’s all up with Penelope, I know. I can tell by the look on her face that she will not forgive or believe me. I’ll give up. It’s no use now trying to solve the Park mystery—no use trying to do anything.”
Dido looked uneasy. She had seen all and she partly understood. She said, in a little strained voice: “I am very sorry.”
“I wish some man would tramp on my toes or punch me in the ribs. I’d just like a chance to knock the life out of somebody,” Dick said, savagely.
Dido laughed softly at Dick’s outburst, but she delicately avoided the subject of the lady who looked so angry.
“I forgot to tell you,” she said, at length, in an effort to change the subject, “that it’s all arranged at last.”