"And how dreadfully pale she
is to-night! Really, I have never seen her look more unattractive."
She turned with her most dazzling smile to receive the American
Ambassador, and no one could have guessed that under her smile was real
anger, because her stepdaughter was gracing the occasion in a robe of
sombre black.
All the guests had arrived with the exception of Ralph Cochrane, the
heir-apparent, as Priscilla styled him, and Lady Raffold chatted with
one eye on the door. It was too bad of the young man to be late.
She was just giving him up in despair, and preparing to proceed to the
dining-room without him, when his name was announced. Lord Raffold went
forward to meet him. Priscilla, sitting on a lounge with Lord Harfield's
mother, caught the sound of a soft, leisurely voice apologising; and
something tightened suddenly at her heart, and held its beating. It was
a voice she knew.
As through a mist, she looked across the great room, with its many
lights, its buzz of careless voices. And suddenly, it seemed to her, she
was back in the little village church at Raffold, furtively watching a
stranger who stood in the entrance, and searched with level scrutiny
quite deliberately and frankly till he found her.
Their eyes met, and her heart thrilled responsively as an instrument
thrills to the hand of a skilled player.
Almost involuntarily she rose.
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