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Lee Hannaford's aloofness from his wife's relatives had turned to hostility; he spoke of them with increasing bitterness, threw contempt on Dr. Derwent's scientific work, and condemned Irene as a butterfly of fashion. Olga ceased to visit the house in Bryanston Square, and the cousins only corresponded. It was Dr.
As he crossed a street in the neighborhood, he was nearly run over by a cab, carrying a gentleman and his luggage. The gentleman was Mr. Winterfield, on his way to Derwent's Hotel. Lady Loring very kindly searched her card-basket, as the readiest means of assisting Romayne. Penrose had left his card, on his departure from London, but no address was written on it.
TWICE Father Benwell called at Derwent's Hotel, and twice he was informed that no news had been received there of Mr. Winterfield. At the third attempt, his constancy was rewarded. Mr. Winterfield had written, and was expected to arrive at the hotel by five o'clock. It was then half-past four. Father Benwell decided to await the return of his friend.
The stars were twinkling in an invisible sky, and she could hear a rhythmic sound of many waters. That girl had everything. It wasn't fair. She knew Mr. Dunham well. He was popular, he was admired. He was of Edna Derwent's world. She was doubtless popular and admired. What would they both think of Nat? Nat, stout, red-faced, not too careful of his hands.
She refused the great man's offer, and Arnold was at first astonished, then gratified. For such refusal there could be only one ground: Miss Derwent's "heart" was already disposed of. Women have "hearts"; they really do grow fond of the men they admire; a singular provision of nature. He would propose during the voyage.
"Lyle, you are mocking me," said Olive, sadly. "Mocking you! It is very cruel to tell me so," and he turned away with an expression of deep pain. Olive began to wake from the bewilderment into which his words had thrown her. But she could not realise the possibility of Lyle Derwent's loving her, his senior by some years, many years older than he in heart; pale, worn, deformed.
"Do you think Miss Derwent's pretty?" she asked Sylvia after Edna had made her adieux. "Very," answered Sylvia, who was enveloped in the apron the guest had worn the night before, and was awkwardly wiping dishes as the housekeeper washed them. Minty had gone to school. "I know folks most always think so," said Mrs.
Derwent would gladly have seen more of her, gladly have helped to cheer her life, but a hearty antipathy held him aloof from Lee Hannaford. Communication between the two families was chiefly maintained through Dr. Derwent's daughter Irene, now in her nineteenth year. The girl had visited her aunt at Geneva, and since then had occasionally been a guest at Ewell.
"Yes, when you don't miss of it," returned the boy, who had hung around the church steps to-day and peered within until he had satisfied himself that this was one of the missing days. He was a sufficiently docile attendant at the sanctuary whenever it meant staring for an hour at the back of Miss Derwent's head. "And whenever we miss, it is for some important reason," returned Edna impressively.
Nancy Derwent's indignant exclamation caused the deputy to flounder for a moment in attempting to explain that he had misquoted his own sentiments, and then he went on with the translation: "She says she's willing to take his place in the jail if you'll let him out. She says she was down sick with the fever, and the doctor said she'd die if she didn't have medicine.
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