“Oh yes, a bread-and-butter engagement. My uncle was notoriously inadequate in all practical affairs; he was a scholar and something of a recluse and the most charming gentleman I ever saw, but a child in worldly matters,—a child! It ended, you see.”
“How did it end?”
“Oh, poor Will Hayter died.”
“Dead long?”
“Five or six years.”
“Well, I’m not afraid of dead men.” Brockton laughed in relief. Mrs. Dinsmore did not point out to him from her more subtle knowledge that constancy to the unchanging dead is sometimes easier than constancy to the variable living. She was only too glad to have the inevitable disclosure made lightly and the truth dismissed without frightening off the desirable suitor. “And certainly Miss Harned don’t look as if, as if—”
“Any irremediable grief were gnawing at her damask cheeks?—”
“What’s this about damask cheeks?” The question came along with a swirl of skirts from the great hall. “Cousin Anna, don’t hate me for keeping you so long. Mr. Brockton, I owe you a thousand apologies.”
Some of those who admitted Millicent Harned’s charm declared that it lay in her voice. Always there sounded through its music the note of eagerness, with eagerness’s underlying hint of pathos. Her tones were like her face, her motions, herself. Impulse, merriment, yearning, and the shadow of melancholy dwelt in her eyes and shaped her lips to sensitive curves. She was tall, and her motions were of a spontaneous grace, swifter and more changeful than most women’s.
“You have been a disgracefully long time, Millicent,” her cousin answered her apology. “But”—she looked at the beautifully gowned figure, the lovely, imaginative face, thereby, like a good showman, calling Mr. Brockton’s attention to them—“we’ll forgive you.”