"He must do it to-night," murmurs the girl's mother with a complacent smile on her worldly, cruel face, "and then Mabel will soon see that—the other—was all a mistake."
Some mothers believe such worn-out theories as this—and others—are merely heartless.
Lord Saint Sinnes leads the way deliberately to the most secluded part of the garden. There are two chairs at the end of a narrow pathway. Mabel sits down hopelessly. She is a quiet-eyed little girl, with brown hair and gentle ways. Just—in a word—the sort of girl who usually engages the affections of blushing, open-air, horsey men. She has no spirit, and those who know her mother are not surprised. She is going to say yes, because she dare not say no. At least two lives are going to be wrecked at the end of the narrow path.
Lord Saint Sinnes sits down at her side and contemplates his pointed toes. Then he looks at her—his clean-shaven face very grave—with the eye of the steeplechase rider.
"Miss Maddison"—jerk of the chin and pull at collar—"you're in a ghastly fright."
Miss Maddison draws in a sudden breath, like a sob, and looks at her lacework handkerchief.
"You think I'm going to ask you to marry me?"
Still no answer. The stiff collar gleams in the light of a Chinese lantern. Lord Saint Sinnes's linen is a matter of proverb.
"But I'm not. I'm not such a cad as that."
The girl raises her head, as if she hears a far-off sound.