'
'Cruel to myself. Yes, I am cruel to myself. I had the chance of
happiness a year ago, and I lost it. I have the chance of happiness
now--yes, of consummate bliss--and haven't the courage to snatch at it.
Take off this horrid gown, Kibble; my head is splitting: I shan't go to
dinner.'
'Oh, Lady Lesbia, you are treading on the pearl embroidery,'
remonstrated poor Kibble, as Lesbia kicked the new gown from under her
feet.
'What does it matter!' she exclaimed with a bitter little laugh. 'It has
not been paid for--perhaps it never will be.'
The dinner was silent and gloomy. It was as if a star had been suddenly
blotted out of the sky. Smithson, ordinarily so hospitable, had been too
much disturbed in mind to ask any of his friends to stay to dinner; so
there were only Lady Kirkbank, who was too tired to be lively, and
Montesma, who was inclined to be thoughtful. Lesbia's absence, and the
idea that she was ill, gave the feast almost a funereal air.
After dinner Smithson and Montesma sat on deck, smoking their cigars,
and lazily watching the lights on sea, and the lights on shore; these
brilliant in the foreground, those dim in the distance.
Pages:
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813