The Essential Elinor Glyn Collection. Glyn Elinor

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      "Hector, don't you want me to speak about it?"

      He took a chair now by his sister's sofa, and he began to turn over the papers rather fast which lay on a table near by.

      "Yes, I do," he said, "because, after all, you can do something for me. I want you to be particularly kind to her, will you, Anne, dear?"

      "But, of course; only you must tell me who she is and where I shall find her."

      "You will find her at Claridge's, and she is only the wife of an impossible Australian millionaire called Brown--Josiah Brown."

      "Poor dear Hector, how terrible!" thought Anne. "It is not the American, then?" she said, aloud.

      "There never was any American," he exclaimed. "Monica is the most ridiculous gossip, and always sees wrong. If she had not Jack to keep her from talking so much she would not leave one of us with a rag of character."

      "I will go to-morrow and call there, Hector," Lady Anningford said. "My cold is sure to be better; and if she is not in, shall I write a note and ask her to lunch? The husband, too, I suppose?"

      "I fear so. Anne, you are a brick."

      Then he said good-night, and went to the opera.

      Left to herself, Lady Anningford thought: "I suppose she is some flashy, pretty creature who has caught Hector's fancy, the poor darling. One never has chanced to find an Australian quite, quite a lady. I almost wish he would marry Morella and have done with it."

      Then she lay on her sofa and pondered many things.

      She was a year older than her brother, and they had always been the closest friends and comrades.

      Lady Anningford was more or less a happy and contented woman now, but there had been moments in her life scorched by passion and infinite pain. Long ago in the beginning when she first came out she had had the misfortune to fall in love with Cyril Lamont, married and bad and attractive. It had given him great pleasure to evade the eye of Lady Bracondale, pure dragon and strict disciplinarian. Anne was a good girl, but she was eighteen years old and had tasted no joy. She was not an easy prey, and her first year had passed in storms of emotion suppressed to the best of her powers.

      The situation had been full of shades and contrasts. The outward, a strictly guarded lamb, the life of the world and aristocratic propriety; and the inward, a daily growing mad love for an impossible person, snatched and secret meetings after tea in country-houses, walks in Kensington Gardens, rides along lonely lanes out hunting, and, finally, the brink of complete ruin and catastrophe--but for Hector.

      "Where should I be now but for Hector?" her thoughts ran.

      Hector was just leaving Eton in those days, and had come up and discovered matters, while she sobbed in his arms, at the beginning of her second season. He had comforted her and never scolded a word, and then he had gone out armed with a heavy hunting-crop, found Cyril Lamont, and had thrashed the man within an inch of his life. It was one of Hector's pleasantest recollections, the thought of his cowering form, his green silk smoking-jacket all torn, and his eyes sightless. Cyril Lamont's talents had not run in the art of self-defence, and he had been very soon powerless in the hands of this young athlete.

      The Lamonts went abroad that night, and stayed there for quite six months, during which time Anne mended her broken heart and saw the folly of her ways.

      Hector and she had never alluded to the matter all these years, only they were intimate friends and understood each other.

      Lady Bracondale adored Hector and was fond of Anne, but had no comprehension of either. Anne was a _frondeuse_, while her mother's mind was fashioned in carved lines and strict boundaries of thought and action.

      XVII

      Meanwhile, Hector reached the opera, and made his way to the omnibus box where he had his seat.

      He felt he could not stand Morella Winmarleigh just yet. The second act of "Faust" was almost over, and with his glass he swept the rows of boxes in vain to find Theodora. He sat a few minutes, but restlessness seized him. He must go to the other side and ascertain if she could be discovered from there. Morella Winmarleigh's box commanded a good view for this purpose, so after all he would face her.

      He looked up at her opposite. She sat there with his mother, and she seemed more thoroughly wholesomely unattractive than ever to him.

      He hated that shade of turquoise blue she was so fond of, and those unmeaning bits and bows she had stuck about. She was a large young woman with a stolid English fairness.

      Her hair had the flaxen ends and sandy roots one so often sees in those women whose locks have been golden as children. It was a thin, dank kind of hair, too, with no glints anywhere. Her eyes were blue and large and meaningless and rather prominent, and her lightish eyelashes seemed to give no shade to them.

      Morella's orbs just looked out at you like the bow-windows of a sea-side villa--staring and commonplace. Her features were regular, and her complexion, if somewhat all too red, was fresh withal; so that, possessing an income of many thousands, she passed for a beauty of exceptional merit.

      She had a good maid who used her fingers dexterously, and did what she could with a mistress devoid of all sense of form or color.

      Miss Winmarleigh went to the opera regularly and sat solidly through it. The music said nothing to her, but it was the right place for her to be, and she could talk to her friends before going on to the numerous balls she attended.

      If she loved anything in the world she loved Hector Bracondale, but her feelings gave her no anxieties. He would certainly marry her presently, the affair would be so suitable to all parties; meanwhile, there was plenty of time, and all was in order. The perfect method of her account-books, in which the last sixpence she spent in the day was duly entered, translated itself to her life. Method and order were its watchwords; and if the people who knew her intimately--such as her chaperon, Mrs. Herrick, and her maid, Gibson--thought her mean, she was not aware of their opinion, and went her way in solid rejoicing.

      Lady Bracondale was really attached to her. Morella's decorum, her absence of all daring thought in conversation, pleased her so. She had none of that feeling when with Miss Winmarleigh she suffered in the company of her daughter Anne, who said things so often she did not quite understand, yet which she dimly felt might have two meanings, and one of them a meaning she most probably would disapprove of.

      She loved Anne, of course, but oh, that she could have been more like herself or Morella Winmarleigh!

      Both women saw Hector in the omnibus box, and saw him leave it, and were quite ready with their greetings when he joined them.

      Miss Winmarleigh had a slight air of proprietorship about her, which every one knew when Hector was there. And most people thought as she did, that he would certainly marry her in the near future.

      He was glad it was not between the acts--there was no excuse for conversation after their greeting, so he searched the house in peace with his glasses.

      And although he was hoping to see Theodora, his heart gave a great bound of СКАЧАТЬ