'Are you sure there is nothing the matter?' he asked, with a faint
quiver in his voice.
'What should there be the matter?'
'Who can say? God knows that I know no cause for evil. I am honest
enough, and faithful enough, Lesbia. But your face to-night is like a
presage of calamity, like the dull, livid sky that goes before a
thunderstorm.'
'I hope there is no thunderbolt coming,' she answered, lightly. 'What
very tall talk about a headache, for really that is all that ails me.
Hark, they have begun "My Queen." I am engaged for this waltz.'
'I am sorry for that.'
'So am I. I would ever so much rather have stayed out here.'
Two hours later, in the steely morning light, when sea and land and sky
had a metallic look as if lit by electricity, Lady Lesbia stood with her
chaperon and her affianced husband on the landing stage belonging to the
club, ready to step into the boat in which six swarthy seamen in red
shirts and caps were to row them back to the yacht. Mr. Smithson drew
the warm _sortie de bal_, with its gold-coloured satin lining and white
fox border, closer round Lesbia's slender form.
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