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Updated: June 29, 2025
Mount Dunstan was almost a stranger she had met Lord Westholt oftener. Would she have felt the same hot beat of the blood, if Lord Westholt had been concerned? No, she answered herself frankly, she would not. A certain great ball, given yearly at Dunholm Castle, was one of the most notable social features of the county.
Though he had boldness enough, he knew that no man even though he is free to speak the best and most passionate thoughts of his soul could be sure that he would gain what he desired. The good fortune of Westholt, or of any other, could but give him one man's fair chance. But having that chance, he knew he should not relinquish it soon.
Betty's effect upon the county was made quite clear, as also was the interested expectation of her appearance in town next season. Mr. Vanderpoel, perhaps, gathered more from the letter than his wife did. In her mind, relieved happiness and consternation were mingled. "Do you think, Reuben, that Betty will marry that Lord Westholt?" she rather faltered.
She understood the feeling of the junior assistant, when he found himself in the presence of possible purchasers. Her blood tingled slightly. She wished she had brought a catalogue. "We will come to Stornham to see the catalogue," Lord Dunholm promised. "Perhaps you will read it aloud to us," Westholt suggested gleefully.
The novelty of it had delighted and amused them. Lord Dunholm had, at points, been touched as Penzance had been. Westholt had felt that he must ride over to Stornham to see the convalescent. He wanted to learn some New York slang. He would take lessons from Selden, and he would also buy a Delkoff two Delkoffs, if that would be better. He knew a hard-working fellow who ought to have a typewriter.
"Exactly the kind of unnecessary thing he would be likely to repeat." He cast the subject aside as if it were a worthless superfluity and went on: "When you say there is no one suitable, you surely forget Lord Westholt." "Yes, it's true I forgot him for the moment. But " with a laugh "one rather feels as if she would require a royal duke or something of that sort."
It is all I have. So I patch it up when I can afford it, with a crutch or a splint and a bandage." Late in the afternoon of the day on which Miss Vanderpoel rode away from West Ways with Lord Westholt, a stealthy and darkly purple cloud rose, lifting its ominous bulk against a chrysoprase and pink horizon.
Lord Dunholm and his eldest son, Lord Westholt, sauntered together smoking their after-dinner cigars on the broad-turfed terrace overlooking park and gardens which seemed to sweep without boundary line into the purplish land beyond.
Welden, as a sort of soporific measure, when he lay awake at night. She had sent photographs of Stornham, of Dunholm Castle, and of Dole, and had even found an old engraving of Lady Alanby in her youth. Her evident liking for the Dunholms had pleased him. They were people whose dignity and admirableness were part of general knowledge. Lord Westholt was plainly a young man of many attractions.
But he did not come, and she danced with one man after another. Westholt came to her several times and had more dances than one. Why did the other not come? Several times they whirled past each other, and when it occurred they looked both feeling it an accident into each other's eyes.
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