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Updated: June 11, 2025
Yesterday she was a charming girl, radiantly good-looking, and likely to attract attention even in circles where pretty women were plentiful as blackberries in a September thicket, but to-day, in Medenham's eyes, she was a woodland sprite, an ethereal creature cast in no mortal mold. So enthralled was he by the vision that he failed to note her attire.
She felt that she was trammeled in a net of deception, and, like the freedom-loving American that she was, she resented the toils none the less because their strands remained invisible. Seeing Medenham's crestfallen aspect at her unjust charge with reference to Dale's presence, she bit her lip with a laugh of annoyance and turned on Mrs. Devar.
But the excuse was stopped short by a blow on the angle of the jaw that stretched him by Medenham's side and apparently as lifeless. Assuredly, Dale was not versed in the punctilio of the duel, but he knew how and where to hit with a fist that was hard as one of his own spanners.
"There is every reason to hope, but he must not be disturbed not excited, that is," she added, seeing the wan agony in Cynthia's face. The girl tiptoed to the side of the bed. Medenham's eyes were closed, but he was muttering something. She bent and kissed his forehead, and a strange smile broke through the tense lines of pain.
"I'm ver-ry sor-ry, mam," she said, "but I see Mr. Fitz-roy down there on the riv-er " "Where, where?" cried the other, rather to gain time to collect her wits than to ascertain Medenham's whereabouts. The girl pointed. "In that lit-tle boat, all by its-self, mam," she said. "Oh, it was of no importance. By the way," and Mrs.
Medenham's character was one that transmuted words to deeds. He drove the skiff onward with a powerful sweep that discovered an unexpected shoal. There might have been some danger of an upset if the oars were in less skillful hands. As it was, they were back in deep water within a few seconds. Cynthia laughed without the least tremor.
He started from Paris yesterday afternoon, and found he had just time to send me a line by paying a special postal fee at Paddington.... What?... Mrs. Leland going to join us at Chester!... Wire if I get this!..." She reread the letter with heightened color. Medenham's heart sank to his boots while he watched her. Whosoever Mrs.
The title descended through male heirs only, and Medenham's marriage thereby attained an added importance.
"Your chauffeur is immovable, mademoiselle," was the ready answer, though the accompanying smile was not one of the Count's best efforts. "He looks it. Why are you vexed, Fitzroy? Can't you forgive your friend Simmonds?" Cynthia lifted those demure blue eyes of hers, and held Medenham's gaze steadfast.
"To-night I shall realize the feelings of Charles the First when he witnessed the defeat of his troops at the battle of Rowton Moor," was Medenham's savage growl. Hardly aware of her own words, Cynthia murmured: "Though defeated, the poor king did not lose hope." "No: the Stuarts' only virtue was their stubbornness. By the way, I am a Stuart."
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