Marian Bailey received us in a faded old drawing-room, made bright with choice flowers; and Mrs. Baldock greeted us with old-fashioned courtesy.
Presently two other guests were announced; first, a Mr. Hartley, who proved to be a distant cousin of Marian's; and then—Miss Lorimer.
Well-trained as he was in all the ways of society, I saw a slight change pass over my husband's face. It was gone in an instant; and, in his turn, he moved from his station near the window to shake hands with a tall, stately woman. Her golden hair shone as the light touched it, and there was something imposing and sumptuous about her beauty which made me long to go and hide myself. For was not this the very Ida Lorimer who had once been Ronald's chosen love?
There she stood, untouched by poverty and pain, unchanged by any of those daily trials which had stolen my youth away. And as Ronald's head bent towards her, and his eyes seemed to speak the old language that they had spoken to hers long ago, the keen fangs of jealousy began to rend my heart once more.
The long-continued pressure of secret cares—the weakness caused by enfeebled health—the consciousness of altered looks—all these things combined to render me morbid and suspicious as the hours of that memorable evening went on. Once I caught a glimpse of my own mournful little face in a glass; and in the background I saw Miss Lorimer's golden head. What a poor, frail creature I seemed beside that splendid blonde! Mr. Hartley tried to draw me into a conversation, and Marian came many times to my side with smiles and kind words; but nothing could make me forget Miss Lorimer's presence.
At first the stately beauty seemed disposed to ignore me altogether. Once or twice I fancied that she was quietly quizzing my unfortunate black silk, and making silent comments on my dejected aspect. In her eyes I was a little nobody—Lady Waterville's companion—who had been married by Ronald Hepburne in one of his romantic freaks. But before the evening was over, she seemed to have a desire to know something more about me, and came to the corner where I had taken refuge.
"Mr. Hepburne and I are old friends," she said, with a gracious society smile. "I had been wondering where he had hidden himself after his marriage; but he has been telling me about that long illness. How sad it must have been for you! Nursing is such dreary work, isn't it?"
"It was very sad," I admitted quietly, feeling that there was no real sympathy in the cold blue eyes that met mine. "But he is quite well now, and almost as strong as ever."
"He still looks delicate, I fancy. However, Mr. Greystock tells me that he is learning to be a City man, and that must require a great deal of strength and energy I am sure. What a delightful man Mr. Greystock is!"
"I suppose so; I don't know him very well," I replied.