Marguerite Verne was sweetly irresistible. Her dress was simple—a sweet simplicity in every look, motion and gesture. The pure white draperies gave to the spirituelle face the radiance of a Madonna, and placed the maiden in striking contrast to the sparkling bright and witty Louise—a striking and high-spirited brunette, with a mind of no common order.
As Mr. Lawson sat in the Verne drawing-room with the being that he idolized so near him, a deadly struggle was going on within. What a conflict—what doubt, what irresolution!
It was worse than ever to give up all earthly hope, all earthly happiness.
What prevented the young man—aye, every inch a man—from falling on his knees and declaring his love, and begging a slight return for such love?
Go ask the weird sisters upon whose spindles hang the threads of every human life! Go ask the winds that echo the wails of human hearts and often carry them along with a cruel insatiable spirit of revenge, until all is hushed in the stillness of death.
Mrs. Verne dwelt with pride upon the adulation which her firstborn was receiving in them other country. Mrs. Arnold's beauty had been commented upon in the journals; her face was sought after in all the fashionable resorts, and her queenly torso was the subject of every artist.
"They are going to remain for some weeks in Paris, and I am really afraid that Evelyn will be intoxicated with gaiety. She is such a lover of society, the dear girl, and Montague is just as fond of gaiety as Eve. What a happy couple they must be—they write such sweetly interesting letters. Really, Mr. Lawson, it would do one good to read them."
The subjects of those remarks were in the meantime enjoying life at a hotel in Picadilly. They had seen the sights of the great French metropolis, but were they really enjoying life as it should be. Was there real true happiness existing between these two hearts—"this happy couple?"
This is a question to be answered in due time, and which will be "sweetly interesting" to know.
When Mr. Lawson rose to take leave he was uncomfortably conscious of the patronage bestowed upon him. Mrs. Verne was radiant in smiles and gave her hand to the departing guest with the grace of a dowager.