"I will try," she said; "but you know, auntie dear, I CANNOT write a
long explanatory letter. There never seems to be time, does there?
Besides, I am afraid Sir John disapproves of me. I don't know why;
I'm sure I have tried"--which was perfectly true.
Even funerals and lovers must bow to meal-times, and Jack Meredith
was not the man to outstay his welcome. He saw Lady Cantourne
glance at the clock. Clever as she was, she could not do it without
being seen by him.
So he took his leave, and Millicent went to the head of the stairs
with him.
He refused the pressing invitation of a hansom-cabman, and proceeded
to walk leisurely home to his rooms. Perhaps he was wondering why
his heart was not brimming over with joy. The human heart has a
singular way of seeing farther than its astute friend and coadjutor,
the brain. It sometimes refuses to be filled with glee, when
outward circumstances most distinctly demand that state. And at
other times, when outward things are strong, not to say opaque, the
heart is joyful, and we know not why.
Jack Meredith knew that he was the luckiest man in London. He was
rich, in good health, and he was engaged to be married to Millicent
Chyne, the acknowledged belle of his circle. She had in no way
changed. She was just as pretty, as fascinating, as gay as ever;
and something told him that she loved him--something which had not
been there before he went away, something that had come when the
overweening vanity of youth went.
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