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Updated: June 11, 2025
The family had been urging him to marry a stupid but rich New York girl and he oh, well, he uttered a great deal of nonsense about my beauty, my charm, and all that sort of thing " She paused for a moment. No one spoke. Her audience of judges, with the exception of the elder Mrs. Wrandall, watched her as if fascinated. Their faces were almost expressionless.
She imposed but one condition: the picture was never to be exhibited. He met that, with bland magnanimity, by proffering the canvas to Mrs. Wrandall, as the subject's "next best friend," to "have and to hold so long as she might live," "free gratis," "with the artist's compliments," and so on and so forth, in airy good humour.
Rowe-Martin had not been apprised of the rift in the Wrandall lute. She had no reason to consider the exclusive Miss Castleton as anything but the most desirable of companions. Mrs. She couldn't think of Sara without thinking of Gooch. But at last Mrs.
Wrandall," cried Hetty in distress. "I'm not saying she isn't friendly to Sara nowadays," he explained. "She's changed a good deal in the last few months. I think she's broadening out a bit. Since that visit to Nice, she's been quite different. As a matter of fact, she expects to see a good bit of Sara and you this summer. It's like a spring thaw, by Jove, it is."
A small, hatchet-faced man had come up from below and was nodding his head to Leslie Wrandall, a man with short side whiskers, and a sepulchral look in his eyes. Then, having received a sign from Leslie, he tiptoed away. Almost instantly the voices of people singing softly came from some distant, remote part of the house. And then, a little later, the perfectly modulated voice of a man in prayer.
As if fascinated, she stared over the black heads of the three women immediately in front of her at the full length portrait hanging where the light from the hall fell full upon it: the portrait of a dashing youth in riding togs. A moment later Sara Wrandall came over and sat beside her.
She has had my constant, my personal protection for more than twenty months." The Wrandalls leaned forward in their chairs. The match burned Leslie's fingers, and he dropped it without appearing to notice the pain. "What is this you are saying?" demanded Redmond Wrandall.
The one great, inexplicable mystery to her was the heart of Sara Wrandall. She could not fathom it. She could understand her own utter subjection to the will of the other woman; she could explain it satisfactorily to herself, and she could have explained it to the world. Self-preservation in the beginning, self-surrender as time went on, self-sacrifice as the prerogative.
Wrandall touched her handkerchief to the corners of her eyes. "We could not possibly raise any objection to Miss Castleton, if that is what you mean, Harriet," she said. "I am so glad you feel that way about it, my dear," said her friend, touching her handkerchief to her lips.
With a shy, sweet glance at him, she turned toward the door to await the appearance of Watson. He could still feel her in his arms. A drawling voice came to them from the vestibule, and a moment later Leslie Wrandall entered the library, pulling off his gloves as he came. "Hello," he said glibly. "I told that fellow downstairs it wasn't necessary to announce me by telephone.
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