Volume Three – Chapter Two.
Police Business
Dick Millet became quite the military officer as he reached the police-station with his father, and proved that, if he possessed a very small body, it contained plenty of soul. He was staggered at the charge brought against his brother-in-law, that of being a party to a serious attempt at burglary on the previous night, and soon found that there was nothing to be done till the next day. He listened to Huish’s asseverations of innocence very quietly, but said nothing till he exclaimed:
“Why, Dick, you cannot believe me guilty of this monstrous charge!”
“I can only believe one thing just now, John Huish,” he replied; “and that is that you are my dear sister’s husband, and that for her sake everything possible must be done to help you out of this dreadful scrape.”
“Yes,” cried Sir Humphrey feebly, “of course – of course. And, John, my boy, I always liked you; it’s a cursed impertinent lie, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed,” cried Huish earnestly; “unless – unless – ”
He stopped, gazing from one to the other in a curiously bewildered fashion.
“Unless – unless what, my boy? Why don’t you speak out?”
“Let it rest to-night, sir,” said Huish, in an altered voice. “I am confused – shocked. Get me some good advice to-morrow, Dick, and when the examination comes off, you will, of course, find bail.”
Dick nodded, but did not shake hands.
“I’ll do everything I can,” he said sternly.
“Won’t you shake hands?”
“No,” replied Dick, “not till you are cleared. Huish,” he said in a whisper. “I shall work day and night to clear you, for Gerty’s sake; but I’ve heard some blackguardly things about you lately. This, though, is worse than all.”
Huish turned from him, looking dazed and strange, to shake hands with Sir Humphrey, who began protesting to and scolding the inspector on duty.
“I – I – don’t believe a word of it,” he cried angrily. “You – you – you police fellows are always – yes, damme, always making mistakes of this kind, and – and, confound me, if I don’t have the matter brought before the House of Lords. Good-night, my dear boy; make them give you everything you want, and we’ll be here first thing in the morning. – It’s – it’s – it’s about the most disgraceful thing I ever knew, my dear Dick,” he said as soon as they were in the street; “but if you don’t take me on to the club and give me some supper I shall faint.”
“You must be sharp, then, father. Gertrude will be horribly anxious.”
“Yes, yes, poor girl, she will; but it will be all right to-morrow. I’m not so strong as I was, and this has upset me terribly.”
There was no doubt about it, for the old gentleman looked very haggard. A hearty supper, however, restored him, and he left the club in pretty good spirits to accompany Dick to Westbourne Road, where they were met by the announcement that “master came back a bit ago, and went away with missus.”
“What does this mean?” said Dick sternly.
“Mean, my boy? Why, that he has got bail.”
“I’m afraid not,” said Dick to himself, and, with the full belief that his brother-in-law had contrived to escape, he accompanied his father home, keeping, however, his thoughts to himself.
In the morning, however, there was the news that a message had come for her ladyship to go to Wimpole Street, where Mrs Huish had arrived on the previous night.
“Was John Huish there, too?” asked Dick sharply.
“I did not hear,” said her ladyship haughtily. “I know nothing of such a person, and I will not have my name sullied by mention in connection with his.”
“But you’ll go and see Gertrude?”
“No,” exclaimed her ladyship. “It was Gertrude’s duty to come to me if she were in trouble. If she prefers her uncle’s help, let her enjoy it. I have no more to say, except that I shall not go; and, Humphrey, I forbid you to go there – for the present.”
“And me, too,” said Dick quietly.
“You have long ceased to obey me,” said her ladyship austerely, “and must take your own course. I will not, however, be dragged into this dreadful scandal.”
“Humph!” said Dick. “Then you let it all out, father, after you’d gone to bed?”
“Yes, my son, yes. Your mamma was very anxious, and I told her all.”
“As you like. I’m off now to secure counsel. We’ll have him out before night.”
Lady Millet sighed and wiped her eyes, but no one paid any heed to her, so she consoled her injured feelings with a good breakfast.
Meantime, John Huish sat through the night, thinking, and calling up from the past all the strange things that had been laid to his charge.
“What does it mean?” he said aloud. “Am I a madman or a somnambulist, or do I lead a double life?”
It was terrible, that being shut up in such a place; for when the other prisoners were silent, there was a dreadful clock close by, which seemed in its cold, harsh, brazen way to goad him to distraction. It was a hurried clock, that always seemed manifesting itself and warning people of the flight of time, so that every quarter of an hour it fired off a vicious “ting-tang” in the two discordant notes that made a bad descending third, repeating itself at the half-hours, tripling at the third quarter, and at the hour snapping as it were at the world four times before allowing the hammer on another bell to rapidly go off slam – slam – slam! till its duty was done. “Clocks are bad enough,” he thought, “from the warnings they give of how short our lives are growing; but when a man is in trouble and bells are added, the effect is maddening indeed.”
He sat trying to think till he was bewildered, and at last, in a complete maze, he sat listening to the noisy singing of a woman in the next cell, and the drunken howlings of a man on the other side.
“My poor darling!” he cried at last; “it will almost break her heart. A burglary! and if they should prove that I was guilty – oh, it is monstrous!”
He tried to pace his cell, but it was too narrow, and he sat down again with his hands pressed to his forehead, with the mental darkness coming down upon him thicker than that of his cell.
“It’s like some nightmare,” he said at last, “and as if in some way my brain were unhinged. Absence – absence of mind! My God! will a judge believe me if I say for defence that I committed a robbery in a fit of absence of mind? One has read of strange things in people’s lives,” he thought after a time – “how they have been totally unconscious of what took place in one half of their existence. Is it possible that my life is divided into two parts, in each of which I am ignorant of what passes in the other? But who would believe it! I’ll have Stonor here first thing to-morrow.”
He sat with his mind growing darker and darker, and vainly struggling against the black oppression; and at last, with a weary wail; he exclaimed unconsciously:
“My poor darling, what a night for you! Last night happy and admired – to-night – oh, thank God – thank God!”
For the light had come.
The police declared that the burglary had taken place the previous night about nine o’clock at a City house, and that he was seen and nearly captured. Why, a dozen people could prove that he was at Dr Stonor’s the whole evening.
He rose and tapped sharply at his cell door.
“Now then,” said a rough voice. “What is it?”
“Kindly ask the inspector to come here for a moment,” said Huish.
The officer on night duty came from his desk where he had been entering the last charge. “Well, sir?” he said, with official brevity.
“Sorry to trouble you,” said Huish, “but that burglary – when was it?”
“Nine o’clock last night – that is, the night before last, for it is now four o’clock.”
“Thank God,” said Huish, and he lay down upon that peculiarly soft bed provided by a humane Government at police-stations for arrested people, and slept soundly for hours.
“Precious eager to know when, the crack was done,” said the officer, as he looked in at the cell. “Clever dodge – going to try an alibi?”
What was intended for a preliminary examination took place in the course of the afternoon, and the officer in charge of the case brought forward two or three witnesses to give a sufficiency of evidence to justify a remand, informing the magistrate that he believed that he should be able to produce a long catalogue of crime against the prisoner, who had succeeded in eluding the vigilance of the police for some time past.
On the other side, however, the services of the rising young counsel, Mr Douglas, had been secured. He made a brief and indignant address to the magistrate on the way in which the sanctity of Mr Huish’s home had been invaded, and a gentleman dragged off to answer this disgraceful trumped-up charge. In conclusion, Mr Douglas said he should bring forward witnesses whose social position was such that their testimony must be taken as unimpeachable, and they would prove on oath that at the time when this gentleman – the defendant; he would not insult him by calling him the prisoner – was stated to have been seen by the police in company with some notorious scoundrels engaged in a burglary – his worship would excuse him for smiling, the charge was so absurd – Mr Huish was partaking of the hospitality of a well-known physician at his house at Highgate.
“Call Dr Stonor.”
Dr Stonor stepped into the witness-box, was sworn, and stated that Mr John Huish often dined with him at Highgate, and was there on the night in question, that he arrived there about seven, and did not leave till twelve, and was never out of his sight the whole time.
Daniel Repson, Dr Stonor’s confidential servant, testified to the same effect.
Then Sir Humphrey Millet was sworn, and stated that he called at his son-in-law’s at six o’clock, and went up with him in the carriage to Highgate, and was set down at Grosvenor Square on the return. He certainly did have a nap after dinner, for about half an hour, but not for more.
Mr Richard Millet gave similar testimony, and lastly Miss Stonor was sworn, and stated that, saving the interval between leaving the table and tea-time, she saw Mr Huish the whole evening.
Mr Douglas was of opinion that after the evidence of these witnesses his worship would dismiss the contemptible charge, and tell his client that he left the court without a stain upon his character. At the same time, he hoped the police would be more careful, for he was informed that Mrs Huish had been most terribly alarmed, and that the consequences might be serious.
The police-sergeant was checkmated, and the prisoner was discharged at once, leaving the police court in the company of his friends.
“Yes,” said the sergeant grimly, “he has done us this time; but if we don’t put salt on his tail yet, I’ll leave the force.”
John Huish shook hands heartily with the doctor, who eyed him rather curiously, and then turned to Dick, who was, however, very distant.
“You’ll come home with me,” he said; but Dick shook his head.
“Not now,” he said coldly; “another time. Come, father.”
The old man shook hands heartily with his son-in-law, and whispered:
“Dick’s a bit put out, my dear John; but it’s all right. I’ll put it all straight. I’ll bring him on to-night.”
Huish nodded, and shook hands then with the doctor and Miss Stonor.
“Good-bye, doctor; a thousand thanks! Miss Stonor, you’ll excuse me. I am most anxious to get home.”
Miss Stonor nodded and smiled, and Huish was turning away, when the doctor said:
“Run up and see me again soon.”
Huish nodded assent and turned away, hailed the first hansom, and jumped in, the man smiling at him in a friendly way.
“Home, sir?” he said.
“Yes, quick. West – ”
“All right, sir – I know,” cried the man, and away went the cab.
“Driven me before,” thought Huish, as he sank back in the cab. “Poor little darling! how she has been upset!”
He lit a cigar and smoked it, to settle his nerves as he termed it, and then his thoughts turned to the affairs of the past night.
“And suppose I had not been able to bring all those witnesses to prove my innocence,” he thought. “How horrible!”
He moved about uneasily in his seat, for he was not satisfied. This was, after all, but another link in the strange chain of circumstances that had troubled him, and he shuddered and threw away his cigar, for his nerves refused to be settled. Somehow, a strange uneasy feeling kept increasing upon him, and at last he raised the little trap and shouted to the man to go faster.
“Suppose she is ill!” he muttered. “Poor darling! what she must have suffered!”
At last the cab was pulled up at the door, and Huish leaped out and ran up the steps without paying the man, who waited, while, not finding his latch-key, he rang sharply, and the cook answered the door.
“Where is your mistress?” he said sharply.
“Missus, sir? I haven’t seen her since last night.”
“What, has she gone home?”
“Home, sir? I don’t know, sir – I mean, since you fetched her, sir.”
“Since I fetched her, woman! Are you mad?”
“Not as I knows on, sir,” said the woman, with the asperity of one in her profession. “You ast me where missus was, and I says as I ain’t seen her since you fetched her last night.”
“Since I fetched her last night! You mean the night before, to go out to dinner – Dr Stonor’s.”
“No, sir, I don’t; I mean the very last night as is, ’bout half an hour after you was took.”
“Yes, yes; go on,” said Huish, turning ghastly pale.
“You come back and told missus quite sharp like to put on her things, and took her away in a cab.”
“Are you – dreaming?” faltered Huish, staggering back against the wall.
“Dreaming! no, sir, of course not. And the poor dear got ready in a minute, and you both went off in a cab.”
“This is horrible!” groaned Huish. “I never returned till now; I did not come and fetch her.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, which you’ve forgot,” said a voice behind him; and Huish turned round to find himself face to face with the cabman.
“Like me to wait, sir? Didn’t pay me my fare. It was me as drove you and the lady last night.”
“You! – what? – me? – the lady?”
“Of course, sir,” said the man, smiling. “You hailed me in Praed Street, outside the station, and come on here, and you told me to wait. Five minutes arter you comes out with the lady, and I took you down to Cannon Street.”
“This is horrible!” groaned Huish again; and he clutched at the umbrella-stand to save himself from falling.
“The gent’s ill,” said the cabman hoarsely.
“Yes, ill – ill,” cried Huish; “no – better now. Tell me, both of you, did I come last night and fetch my wife?”
“Course you did, sir,” said the cook in an injured tone, as if insulted at her veracity being impeached.
“If I might make so bold, sir,” said the cabman. “I’d have a drop o’ short; it’s nerves – that’s what it is. I get a bit touched so sometimes, after being on. Shall I drive you to – ”
“A doctor’s? – yes,” groaned Huish. “Quick! – to Dr Stonor’s, Highgate.”
“Highgate, sir? Hadn’t you better go to one close by?”
“Quick, man! – to Highgate,” cried Huish. “Here.”
He thrust a sovereign into the man’s hand, and ran down the steps to the cab.
“Right, sir,” cried the cabman, running after him and climbing to his perch. “Lor’!” he muttered as he started the horse, “how willing a suv. do make a man, toe be sure!”
It seemed an age before the cab had climbed the long hill, and all the time John Huish sat back hat-less, and holding his head with both his hands, for it throbbed as though it would burst. Two or three times over he thrust up the trap to urge the man to hasten; but during the latter part of the journey he sat back, fighting hard to restrain himself, for he felt that if he moved or spoke more he would begin to shriek and utter wild drivel. He was going mad – he was sure of it – and his mind would no longer bear the horrible strain of the bewildering thought. There was something wrong, and he could not master it. One sole thought now filled his mind, but in a hazy, strange way, and that was that he, in some other state, had fetched away his wife and destroyed her.
At last, just as they neared the top of the hill, he became aware for the first time that the cabman was watching him, and he started angrily as the trap was shut down.
“Poor gent! he have got it hot,” muttered the cabman; and he gave his horse a touch with the whip, which made the weary beast exert itself a little more, and a few minutes later they were at the doctor’s iron gates.
“Shall I wait, sir?” said the man.
Huish shook his head and jumped out, to ring furiously at the bell.
Daniel came down the path to meet him.
“I thought so,” he muttered, as he saw the excited looks of the visitor; and he offered Huish his arm, for the young man staggered as the gate swung to.
“The doctor – quick!” said Huish, with his eyes looking staring and wild.
“In his study, sir – only just back from town,” said Daniel; and he helped the tottering visitor quickly into the house, across the hall, and at once into the doctor’s room.
“Why, John – Huish, my dear boy, what is this?”
“Possessed – of a devil – doctor,” cried Huish thickly. “For Heaven’s sake – help me – I’m going mad!”
He sank back into an easy-chair gasping, and his face turned blue with the congestion of his veins; then he babbled hoarsely a few unintelligible words, and became insensible.
“Basin – quick!” said the doctor; and as his ready aide ran to a little mahogany stand, the doctor’s pocket-book was opened, a tiny steel blade glittered for a moment, and directly after the dark stream of John Huish’s life-blood was trickling from a vein.
Volume Three – Chapter Three.
Potiphar’s Wife
Clotilde seemed to find little difficulty after her return from the Continental trip in settling down into her new position in life. She made plenty of mistakes, no doubt, but Elbraham’s notions of management were so far from perfect that he proved to be no fair judge. His ideas were that his young wife should keep plenty of company, dress well, and do the honours of his house in excellent style.
As far as display was concerned, this she did; and, Elbraham being nowise opposed to the plan, she frequently had Marie to stay with her. In fact, her sister would have quite taken up her abode at Palace Gardens had Clotilde carried the day; but though she pressed her constantly, talked of her own dulness in town, and made various excuses for keeping Marie at her side, the latter refused to remain there long.
Still, Marie was frequently at Palace Gardens, and whenever she was staying in town Lord Henry Moorpark made frequent calls, and was always pressed by Clotilde to return to dinner.
The old gentleman smiled his thanks, and accepted the invitations with no little sign of pleasure; but he made no farther advance in his suit, and seemed to resign himself calmly to his fate, and to be content to bask, so it appeared, in Marie’s presence; she, for her part, always being kindly affected towards her elderly friend. The officers from Hampton Court, too, were frequent guests at Palace Gardens, dining there in state, but never when Marie was staying with her sister.
“I wonder,” said Clotilde, rather archly to Glen, “that you do not try and exchange troops, so as to be stationed at Kensington instead of Hampton Court. I see some of your regiment is here.”
“Yes,” said Glen carelessly; “but really, Mrs Elbraham, I think I like Hampton Court better than Kensington.”
Clotilde bit her lip, but she showed no further sign of annoyance, and the conversation changed.
Had Glen been a vain man, he would have been delighted at the evident desire Clotilde now displayed for his company; but there was little vanity in his composition. He told himself that he would treat her as if she had never made the slightest impression upon him; and as, he could hardly tell why, he felt a kind of awakening interest in Marie, who he knew had refused Lord Henry Moorpark, he gladly accepted all invitations, in the hope of seeing more of Marie at her sister’s house, but only to be disappointed.
Still, he encountered her occasionally at Hampton, sometimes at Lady Littletown’s – now and then in the gardens, for their intercourse to be of the most distant kind if the Honourable Philippa was present; but friendly – almost affectionate – if it were in the presence of the Honourable Isabella alone.
For the poor lady, failing to make any impression upon Glen, felt a kind of gentle satisfaction in administering to his pleasure. She saw how eager the young officer and her niece were to meet, and this, like a pale beam of reflected light, tended to brighten her own sad life, so that she smiled and sighed and palpitated gently, telling herself, as her trembling hand wandered about the plaits of her old-fashioned dress, that it was very sweet to see others happy.
So great was her enjoyment that often and often, as Glen and Marie, with Ruth for companion, strolled up and down, poor Isabella Dymcox would take her place upon one of the seats, saying that she was rather tired, and shed a few sad tears, which trickled down her withered cheeks, almost unknown to the dreaming author of their being.
It came upon Glen like a surprise on the night of Mrs Elbraham’s grandest “at home” to find that Marie was there; and after being welcomed by his host and hostess, the first very warmly, and the second with a searching look in her eyes, a strange sense of pleasure came over him on seeing Marie standing near, looking, it seemed to him, more handsome than he had ever seen her look before.
There was a dreamy, anxious look in her eyes as they encountered his, and her gloved hand certainly conveyed a trembling, tender pressure when he first shook hands, so that when at last he left her side, he began asking himself whether it was possible that he had been making a mistake, and casting away a living substance for a false deluding shadow.
“Nonsense,” he said impatiently, as the hot blood seemed to rush through his veins. “I can’t be so frivolous.” Then, with a half-laugh, “Broken hearts are not so easily mended, and Marie can only feel a sort of pity and contempt for a fellow who preferred her sister.”
But somehow in the course of the evening his eyes encountered Marie’s from time to time, and, as far as he could judge, there was neither pity nor contempt in them, but a genuine look of tender regard which took him again and again to her side.
Yes; he felt before he came that he liked Marie, and that it was quite possible for a nearer tie than liking to grow up between them in the course of time, but this evening a veil of denseness seemed to have fallen from his eyes, and he read a score of looks and ways in quite a new light.
He hesitated for a while when once or twice he found himself near Clotilde, who seemed to affect his society a good deal that evening, and almost imperiously summoned him with a look to her side.
He went almost gladly, for there was a new sense of joy in his breast. He felt that he was triumphing over the young wife, and yet it was the pitying triumph of a great conqueror who could afford to be merciful; and this feeling grew as he glanced at the splendidly-attired, handsome woman ablaze with diamonds, and then at her coarse, common-looking elderly husband, who, with his round head down between his shoulders, kept bustling about among his guests, like a society showman displaying the beauty of the bejewelled woman he had placed in a gilded cage.
“I can afford to be merciful now,” thought Glen. “Good heavens! what a blind fool I have been! Why, she is worth a thousand Clotildes, and I was a fool not to see her superiority before!”
He paused just then to ask himself whether he were not still blind and foolish with conceit, for why should Marie care for him? But just then his eyes caught hers, and an electric glance made his pulse throb and hopes run high, as he told himself that it was no conceit upon his part, but the truth, and that after all he had not really loved Clotilde.
“No, my dear madame,” he said to himself; “it was a fancy such as a weak man like your humble servant is prone to indulge in. Yes,” he continued, and there was a faint smile on his lip as he caught sight of Clotilde just then watching him; “I thank my stars that I escaped your wiles. You are as handsome a woman as I ever met, and I certainly thought I loved you, but, by Jove, what an escape I have had!”
Glen’s thoughts were in his eyes, upon which Clotilde’s were fixed, but she did not interpret them aright; not even when he gazed at her almost mockingly, as if asking her if she were satisfied with her choice, to which he bade her welcome.
“By Jove, what will Dick say?” thought Glen, as he saw the little fellow cross to Marie. “Poor boy! Well, he will have to get over it, just as he has got over a score of other tender passions. And I thought he said he was in too much trouble about his sisters to think of matrimony for himself.”
The rooms grew more crowded, and Glen longed to cross to Marie’s side, but somehow he was always prevented, save for one five minutes, when Clotilde was by the entrance receiving some new arrivals. Those five minutes, though, were five intervals of joy during which very little was said, but that little was enough to endorse most fully without a positive declaration the ideas that had so lately begun to unfold.
The evening wore rapidly on. Marie was standing by the piano talking to little Dick Millet, and her eyes met those of Glen gazing at her across the room.
He was about to answer the summons they seemed to convey, when Lord Henry Moorpark, looking exceedingly old and yellow by the light of the chandeliers, but gentlemanly and courtly as ever, rose from his seat and crossed to where Marie stood, entering into conversation, as in his sad and deferential way he seemed to have set himself to hover about in the presence of the woman he loved.
“A very, very bright and pleasant party, my child,” he said tenderly. “I hope you are enjoying it.”
“Oh, so much!” cried Marie, darting a grateful look in his eyes. For it was so noble and good of him, she told herself, and she felt that she quite loved the tender-hearted old nobleman for the generous way in which he had seemed to sink his lover’s love in that of a guardian for a child.
“Yes, it is bright and pleasant,” continued Lord Henry; “but I feel very much out of place here, and as if I ought to be quietly sipping my glass of port at my club. How noble your sister looks, and how happy!”
“Noble, indeed!” said Marie eagerly. “She is very handsome, and I hope she is happy.”
“Indeed, I hope so too, my child; but here comes some one else to take my place.”
For as he was speaking, Glen, who felt that if he did not make an effort he would have no further speech with Marie that night, was coming to her side, but only to be captured and carried off in another direction.
“Then I need not go yet,” said Lord Henry, who was watching the little comedy through his half-closed eyes, “unless I go and relieve guard, and set Captain Glen at liberty.”
“Oh, no, no!” whispered Marie, whose face betrayed her mortification. “It would look so particular. – Clotilde saw him coming to me,” she added to herself, “and it was done in spite.”
“Perhaps it would,” said Lord Henry quietly. “I like Captain Glen. He is very manly and handsome. The beau ideal, to me, of a soldier. I must know more of him, and of his amusing little friend yonder, who is pointing his moustaches and looking daggers in my direction. He is another admirer of yours, is he not, Marie?”
“Oh, poor boy: it is ridiculous!” exclaimed Marie, half scornfully. “There is something very likeable about him, too, except when he is in his foolish fit.”
“His foolish fit?” said Lord Henry inquiringly.
“Yes, and tries to talk nonsense. I was compelled to dismiss him, and forbid his coming near me unless he could talk sensibly.”
Fresh announcements were made from time to time, and then a servant approached Clotilde, who immediately began to pair off her guests for the supper.
“Take in Marie, dear Lord Henry,” she said as she came to where they were standing; and soon after, in passing, she said softly to Glen. “I shall reserve myself for you.”
Glen bowed, and waited patiently as the guests went down to the banquet spread in a large marquee set up in the garden, where beneath the red and white striped awnings the brilliant swinging gasaliers turned the glass and lustrous plate upon the long tables into a blaze of scintillations, which illumined with fresh tints the abundant flowers.
Elbraham had given Edgington and Gunter orders to “do the thing handsome,” and they had unmistakably carried out his wishes, even to his own satisfaction; while, to give an additional charm to the supper, the strains of an excellent band, concealed behind a great bank of flowers and plants of the gayest foliage, suddenly began to float through the great marquee.
“It is like a scene in fairyland,” said Clotilde, as Glen took his seat beside her, and after she had glanced down the table to see that the little squat figure of Elbraham was hidden from her gaze by a line of épergnes and jardinières.
“Yes, it is magnificent,” replied Glen gravely and with his eyes fixed upon Marie, seated some little distance below them in company with Lord Henry Moorpark, the former gazing at him in a half-reproachful way.
“I made Elbraham invite you,” whispered Clotilde, sipping the champagne that had just been poured into her glass.
“Indeed!”
“Yes; of course, I shall have all my old friends here as much as I please.”
“I suppose so,” said Glen rather dreamily. “Of course, you are very happy?”
She darted a quick look at him, one that he did not meet, for he bent over his plate and appeared to be busy with his supper.
“How dare you say that to me!” she said in a low voice. “Oh, it is too cruel – and from you!”
Glen shuddered, for he half expected that his hostess’s words would be heard.
“I beg pardon,” he said hastily. “I will take more care.”
“No, no,” she said, in the same deep, earnest tones: “scold me, say cutting, contemptuous things to me. I am a wretched creature, and deserve all.”
Glen seized and emptied his champagne-glass at a draught, and as he set it down he glanced towards the opening in the marquee, as if seeking a way to escape.