As she read it she held her breath. Her beautiful eyes grew soft and misty, while a lovely flush crept over her fair features. Tenderly, almost reverently, she raised the flimsy paper to her lips.
“Not even to Austin,” she murmured, in a voice that was half a sob. “Not even to Austin—dear as he is to me—not even to him.”
Chapter Twenty Seven.
The Story of the Portraits.
Austin Wingate was sitting in his office the next morning. The post had been unusually heavy, and he had a busy day in front of him. In view of the pressure of business which he saw was impending, he was about to ring up Sheila to tell her that he would not come to Chesterfield Street to dinner, as had been arranged, but would see her later in the evening. She, however, rang him up first.
“I want to see you as soon as you can possibly get away,” she told him. “Something very wonderful has happened; I can’t tell you over the ’phone. Can you come to lunch—or before, if possible?”
No true lover puts his business before his sweetheart. He replied unhesitatingly that he would be with her inside a couple of hours. That would give him time to attend to his most pressing correspondence. The rest, or that portion of it which could not be delegated to his subordinate, must wait till to-morrow.
Sheila had changed her mind. Overnight she had resolved not to communicate that wonderful message even to him. Had it not enjoined her to the strictest secrecy?