He had not taken many steps when he perceived Quilt Arnold in the upper gallery, with a lamp in his hand. He looked at her guiltily. “It’s just that he doesn’t seem like your type. I believe that her ladyship is going to Carey House, and on to the Marquis of Waterford’s ball,” he added, hastily consulting a diary on the hall table. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. She grew perhaps a shade paler, and she glanced out into the street, where her four-wheeler cab, laden with luggage, was still waiting. With a well-simulated unconcern and a heightened color she finished her breakfast. She smiled and started for the stairs without reply. I wrote three letters yesterday and tore them up. He was only a younger son, and you know what trouble we had. ” Sebastian drove on.
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