I glanced at her sharply. Her eyes were cast upon the ground in sudden melancholy.
Was that speech of hers a veiled declaration that she loved me still! I held my breath for an instant, then looking straight before me, saw, standing a few yards away, in conversation with Mrs Blain, a female figure in a boating costume of cream flannel braided with coral pink.
“Look?” I exclaimed, glad to avoid responding. “You have another visitor, I think.”
She glanced in the direction I indicated, then hastened forward to greet the new-comer.
The slim-waisted figure turned, and next second I recognised the strikingly handsome profile of Eva Glaslyn, the mysterious woman I secretly loved with such passionate ardour and affection.
“Come, Frank, let me introduce you,” Mary cried, after enthusiastically kissing her friend.
I stepped forward, and as I did so, she turned and fixed on me her large, blue laughing eyes. Not a look, not an expression of her pure countenance was altered.
As I gazed into those eyes I saw that they were as dear as the purest crystal, and that I could look through them straight into her very soul. I bowed and grasped the tiny, refined hand she held forth to me—that soft hand which I had once before touched—when it was cold and lifeless.