As day followed day, Dorise grew more mystified and still more anxious concerning Hugh. What was the truth? She had written to Brussels three times, but her letters had elicited no response. He might be already under arrest, for aught she knew. Besides, she could not rid herself of the recollection of the white cavalier, that mysterious masker who had told her of her lover’s escape.
In this state of keen anxiety and overstrung nerves she was compelled to meet almost daily, and be civil to, her mother’s friend, the odious George Sherrard.
Lady Ranscomb was for ever singing the man’s praises, and never weary of expressing her surprise at Hugh’s unforgivable behaviour.
“He simply disappeared, and nobody has heard a word of him since!” she remarked one day as they sat at breakfast. “I’m quite certain he’s done something wrong. I’ve never liked him, Dorise.”
“You don’t like him, mother, because he hasn’t money,” remarked the girl bitterly. “If he were rich and entertained you, you would call him a delightful man!”
“Dorise! What are you saying? What’s the good of life without money?” queried the widow of the great contractor.
“Everyone can’t be rich,” the girl averred simply. “I think it’s positively hateful to judge people by their pockets.”
“Well, has Hugh written to you?” snapped her mother.
Dorise replied in the negative, stifling a sigh.
“And he isn’t likely to. He’s probably hiding somewhere. I wonder what he’s done?”