Dick gave Marchmont the slip of paper and went off to
despatch the answer. Nobody else was in the room, except Fanny Gaston,
who was playing softly on the piano in the corner. Marchmont came up to
May and put the telegram down on the table by her.
"I'm so sorry," he said formally and constrainedly.
"I don't suppose it's very serious," she said. "But I must go, of course."
She went on under the cover of Fanny's gentle music. "It's all rather odd
though--its coming to-night and its happening at the Mildmays'. I forgot,
though, you don't know why I feel that so odd. How Lady Mildmay'll nurse
him! I expect I shall have a struggle to get him out of the house and
home again."
Marchmont made no answer but stood looking down on her face. She met his
glance fairly, and knew what it was that had forced itself into his mind
and now found expression in his eyes. She had declared to him that her
fate was irrevocable, that the lines of her life were set, that nothing
but death could alter them, and that death had no part in her thoughts
about her husband.
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