"Indeed?" says Lauraine coldly; "I should scarcely think she was the sort of girl he would admire."
"I never said he admired her. Only I suppose there was something or other between them in New York. At least they met there, and her aunt is so awfully thick with him."
"He has never mentioned her name to me," answers Lauraine, wondering why that sudden, sharp pain is at her heart—why the bare idea of Keith Athelstone's marriage should be so hateful.
"Ah!—well, I suppose there is nothing in it but talk," says Lady Etwynde. "You and he are just like brother and sister. He would be sure to have told you."
Brother and sister! A hot, shamed flush creeps to Lauraine's brow, and spreads itself over her face and down to the milk-white throat. Brother and sister!—and on her lips still burns, and in her heart still lives the memory of that kiss of last night.
Lady Etwynde goes, and Lauraine sits there alone, and thinks with shame and terror of what she has weakly yielded—permission for his visits, his presence, his old accustomed privileges that the world deems so natural—that she knows to be so wrong now. At the bottom of her heart lies a bitter contempt of herself and her folly—it stings her to hot anger with him—to a haunting dread that will ever pursue her. And yet ... and yet ...
CHAPTER X
"My dear Lauraine," says Mrs. Douglas, on one of those rare occasions when she is at Lauraine's house, "isn't it rather bad form to have Keith dangling after you so much? Of course every one knows you are just like brother and sister, and Sir Francis is so kind to him and all that—still, people will talk, you know, and really nowadays a woman can't be too careful. Society is terribly scandalous."
Mrs. Douglas has made one of a dinner party at the Vavasours', and is at present sitting by her daughter's side in the great flower-scented drawing-room.