He was not used to the fear of an enemy, but the memory
of Lady Carey's white cheeks and indrawn lips as she had entered
his carriage chilled him. Her one look, too, was a threat worse
than any which her lips could have uttered. He was getting old
indeed, he thought, wearily, when disappointment weighed so heavily
upon him. And Lucille? Had he any real fears of her? He felt a
little catch in his throat at the bare thought--in a moment's
singular clearness of perception he realised that if Lucille were
indeed lost the world was no longer a place for him. So his feet
fell wearily upon the thickly carpeted floor of the corridor, and
his face was unusually drawn and haggard as he opened the door of
his sitting-room.
And then--a transformation, amazing, stupefying. It was Lucille
who was smiling a welcome upon him from the depths of his favourite
easy-chair--Lucille sitting over his fire, a novel in her hand,
and wearing a delightful rose-pink dressing-gown. Some of her
belongings were scattered about his room, giving it a delicate air
of femininity. The faint odour of her favourite and only perfume
gave to her undoubted presence a wonderful sense of reality.
She held out her hands to him, and the broad sleeves of her
dressing-gown fell away from her white rounded arms. Her eyes
were wonderfully soft, the pink upon her cheeks was the blush of
a girl.
Pages:
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161