"I saw three drops of perspiration on his forehead," he said; "and I
knew my own hand was strong."
Lady Catharine was resting on a sofa: she looked tired and paler than
usual, not in the least available for conversation. Miss Raymond had
nestled herself into the recesses of a huge arm-chair close to the
fire--she was as fond of warmth, when she could not get sunshine, as a
tropical bird--and Forrester was lounging on an ottoman behind her, so
that his head almost touched her elbow. When I caught scraps of their
conversation it seemed to be turning on the most ordinary subjects; but
even in these I should have felt lost--I had been so long away from
England--so I contented myself with watching them, and wondering why
discussions as to the merits of operas and inquiries after mutual
acquaintances should make the fair cheeks hang out signals of distress
so often as they did that evening.
I lingered in the smoking-room about midnight for a moment after
Forrester left us.
"So your cousin is really engaged?" I asked Guy.
"_Tout ce qu'il y a du plus fiance_," was the answer. "It was one of the
last affairs of state that my poor aunt concluded before she died. Bruce
is a very good match.
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