"Will you come there and
tell me what--which you decide?"
"With pleasure," he answered, "if I can get away from a stupid dinner
in time."
She let him go reluctantly. Afterwards she passed into her own room,
and stood looking at herself in the pier glass. Artists and the
society papers called her the most beautiful woman in England; fashion
had placed her upon such a pinnacle that men counted it a distinction
to be seen speaking to her. She dealt out her smiles and favors like
Royalty itself; she had never once known a rebuff. This afternoon she
felt that she had received one. Had she been too cold or too forward?
Perhaps she had underestimated the man himself. She rang for her maid.
"Celeste," she said, "I shall wear my new Paquin gown tonight at the
opera, and my pearls."
"Very good, your ladyship."
"And I am going to lie down for an hour or two now. Don't let me be
disturbed. I want to look my best tonight. You understand?"
"Perfectly, your ladyship."
The Marchioness rested, but she did not sleep. She was thinking of
Wingrave!
It was not Lady Ruth, but her husband, who was waiting to see Wingrave
on his return. Aynesworth was talking to him, but at once withdrew.
Wingrave nodded with slightly upraised eyebrows. He never shook hands
with Barrington.
"You wanted to see me?" he inquired, carelessly turning over a little
pile of letters.
Barrington was ill at ease. He hated himself and he hated his errand.
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