“And you younger,” he replied, bending over her hand gallantly. “I hear you’ve been all over the world of late!”
“Yes. Wasn’t it awfully good of Mrs. Bond? I had a ripping time. I enjoyed New York ever so much. I find this place a bit dull after Paris though, so I’m often away with friends.”
And he followed her into the big morning-room where Mrs. Bond, alias Molly Maxwell, was awaiting her.
That afternoon there had been several callers; a retired admiral and his wife, and two county magistrates with their womenfolk, for since her residence at Shapley Mrs. Bond had been received in a good many smart houses, especially by the nouveau riche who abound in that neighbourhood. But the callers had left and they were now alone.
As Louise sat opposite the woman who had taken her under her charge, Hugh gazed at her furtively and saw that there was no comparison between her and the girl he loved so deeply.
How strange it was, he thought. If he asked her to be his wife and they married, he would at once become a wealthy man and inherit all his father’s possessions. True, she was very sweet and possessed more than the ordinary chic and good taste in dress. Yet he felt that he could never fulfil his dead father’s curious desire.
He could never marry her—never!