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Updated: June 19, 2025
For a full hour Dorise continued making casts, but in vain. She changed her flies once or twice, until at last, by a careless throw, she got her tackle hooked high in a willow, with the result that, in endeavouring to extricate it, she broke off the hook. Then with an exclamation of impatience, she wound up her line and threw her rod upon the grass. "Hallo, Dorise!" cried a voice. "No luck, eh?"
For a few moments Dorise remained silent, her eyes fixed across the broad river to the opposite bank. "And if they do, he will most certainly clear himself, Mr. Sherrard," she said coldly. "Ah! You still have great faith in him," he laughed airily. "Well we shall see," and he grinned. "Yes, Mr. Sherrard. I still have faith in Mr. Henfrey.
I think your mother has done very well to drop him." "Has mother dropped him?" asked the girl in pretence of ignorance. "She told me so last night, and I was extremely glad to hear it though he is your friend. It seems that he's hardly the kind of fellow you should know, Dorise." "Why do you say that?" his companion asked, her eyes flashing instantly. "What! Haven't you heard?" "Heard what?"
An old Englishwoman who lives in Florence told her that there's nothing to see beyond the Galleries, and that the place is very catty." Hugh laughed and replied: "All British colonies in Continental cities are catty, my dear Dorise. They say that for scandal Florence takes the palm. I went there for two seasons in succession before the war, and found the place delightful."
But as soon as the door was closed Dorise flung herself upon the chintz-covered couch and wept bitterly as though her heart would break. She had met Louise Lambert it was Hugh who had introduced them. George Sherrard had several times told her of the friendship between the pair, and one night at the Haymarket Theatre she had seen them together in a box.
If he had obeyed his father's wishes and married the latter all the trouble would have been avoided, he thought. Yet he loved Dorise loved her with his whole soul. And she doubted him. Poor fellow!
Sherrard saw that Dorise's attitude was one of hostility, but with his superior overbearing manner he pretended not to notice it. "You were not at Lady Oundle's the night before last," he remarked, for want of something better to say. "I went there specially to meet you, Dorise." "I hate Lady Oundle's dances," was the girl's reply. "Such a lot of fearful old fogies go there."
It runs parallel with the road about two miles to the north the railway between Arles and Aix-en-Provence." "So if we get a breakdown, which I hope we shall not, we are not far from a railway?" Hugh remarked, as through the night the heavy car tore along that open desolate road. As he sat there he thought of Dorise, wondering what had happened and of Louise.
The one woman notorious as she was who knew the truth had been rendered mentally incompetent by an assassin's bullet, while he, himself, was accused of the crime. Hugh Henfrey would have long ago confessed to Dorise the whole facts concerning his father's death, but his delicacy prevented him.
Opening it, she found a plain visiting card which bore the words in a man's handwriting: "Would it be possible for you to meet me to-night at ten at the spot where I have given this to your maid? Urgent. Dorise held her breath. It was a message from the mysterious white cavalier who had sought her out at the bal blanc at Nice, and told her of Hugh's peril!
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