Part 19 (2/2)

”Yes, I can imagine,” said Ronald, very much amused. ”But--by the bye, this is the season here, is not it?”

So they chattered together for nearly an hour about the merest nothings, not saying anything particularly witty, but never seeming to each other in the least dull. Ronald had gone to Sybil for consolation, and he was so well consoled that he was annoyed when Mrs. Wyndham came in and interrupted his _tete-a-tete_. Sybil introduced Ronald, and when he rose to go, after a quarter of an hour, Mrs. Wyndham asked him to dinner on the following day.

That night, when Ronald was alone in his room at the hotel, he took Josephine's photograph from a case in his bag and set it before him on the table. He would think about her for a while, and reflect on his situation; and he sat down for that purpose, his chin resting on his folded hands.

Dear Joe--he loved her so dearly, and she was so cruel not to marry him!

But, somehow, as he looked, he seemed to see through the photograph, and another face came and smiled on him. Again and again he called his attention back, and tried to realize that the future would be very blank and dreary without Joe; but do what he would, it did not seem so blank and dreary after all; there was somebody else there.

”Joe is quite right,” he said aloud. ”I am a brute.” And he went to bed, trying hard to be disgusted with himself. But his dreams were sweet, for he dreamed he was sitting among the ferns at Mrs. Wyndham's house, talking to Sybil Brandon.

”Why, my dear,” said Mrs. Wyndham, when Ronald was gone, ”he is perfectly charming. We have positively found a new man.”

”Yes,” said Sybil. ”I am so glad you asked him to dinner. I do not think he is very clever, but he talks easily, and says funny things.”

”I suppose he has come over to marry his cousin--has not he?” inquired Mrs. Wyndham.

”No,” replied Sybil, ”he is not going to marry Joe Thorn,” she answered absently; for she was thinking of something, and her tone indicated such absolute certainty in the matter that Mrs. Wyndham looked quickly at her.

”Well, you seem quite certain about it, any way,” she said.

”I? Oh--well, yes. I think it is extremely unlikely that he will marry her.”

”I almost wish I had offered to take him to the party to-night,” said Mrs.

Wyndham, evidently unsatisfied. ”However, as he is coming to-morrow, that will do quite as well. Sybil, dear, you look tired. Why don't you go and lie down before dinner?”

”Oh, because--I am not tired, really. I am always pale, you know.”

”Well, I am tired to death myself, my dear, and as there is no one here I will say I am not at home, and rest till dinner.”

Mrs. Wyndham had been as much startled as any one by news of the senator's death that morning, and though she always professed to agree with her husband she was delighted at the prospect of John Harrington's election.

She had been a good friend to him, and he to her, for years, and she cared much more for his success than for the turn of events. She had met him in the street that afternoon, and they had perambulated the pavement of Beacon Street for more than an hour in the discussion of the future. John had also told her that he was now certain that Vancouver was the writer of the offensive articles that had so long puzzled him; at all events that the especial one which had appeared the morning after the skating-party was undoubtedly from his pen. Mrs. Wyndham, who had long suspected as much, was very angry when she found that her suspicions had been so just, and she proposed to deal summarily with Vancouver. John, however, begged her to temporize, and she promised to be prudent.

”By the way,” she said to Sybil, as she was about to leave the room, ”it was a special providence that you did not marry Vancouver. He has turned out badly.”

Sybil started slightly and looked up. Her experience with Poc.o.c.k Vancouver was a thing she rarely referred to. She had undoubtedly given him great encouragement, and had then mercilessly refused him, to the great surprise of every one. But as that had occurred a year and a half ago, it was quite natural that she should treat him like any one else, now, just as though nothing had happened. She looked up at Mrs. Wyndham in some surprise.

”What has he done?” she asked.

”You know how he always talks about John Harrington?”

”He always says he respects him immensely.”

”Very well. It is he who has been writing those scurrilous articles that we have talked about so much.”

”How disgraceful!” exclaimed Sybil. ”How perfectly detestable! Are you quite sure?”

”There is not the least doubt about it. John Harrington told me himself.”

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