"Mrs. Arnold is imperial, but Miss Verne is truly angelic," was the
exclamation of a man of fashion, and the leader of his club, as the
two sisters stood side by side receiving the brilliant throng of
guests that filled to overflowing the gorgeously lighted parlors,
sumptuous drawing-room and bewitching conservatories.
Why was it that Marguerite shrank from the touch of Hubert Tracy's
hand as if stung by an adder? Why was it that, when she was obliged
to listen to his flattering, oily tongue, that she saw the manly
dignified form of Phillip Lawson standing between, with his hand
uplifted, as if in gesture of warning, and a stern reproachful look
upon his honest face?
These are questions that will be answered some day when the world is
older and wiser--when the great road to science will have been
trodden further on towards the goal which shall reveal all mysteries
in the light of simple truths--when man can look a fellow being in
the face and trace each thought written there.
Mrs. Arnold was in the confidence of her husband's friends, and she
had partly deceived her mother to carry out her designs.
Mrs. Verne had hitherto set her heart upon Hubert Tracy, but she was
now flattered by the admiration paid to Marguerite by several of the
nobility, and she thought it would indeed be a rare distinction for
her daughter to have a title.
Pages:
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230