The hot blood ebbed back in Guy Livingstone's veins, and froze at its
fountain-head. His punishment had begun already. Before her face, white
as the dress she wore, was revealed through a break in the dark green
foliage of the camellias, he knew that he had trifled away his life's
happiness, and lost Constance Brandon.
She came forward slowly. With a valiant effort she had shaken off the
first feeling of faintness that had crept over her, and there was
scarcely a trace of emotion left on her features--calm and pale as the
Angel of Death.
Guy had risen, and stood still, with his head bent down on his breast.
For the first time in his life he was unable to raise his eyes, weighed
down by the heavy sense of bitter disgrace and forfeited honor.
But the bright flush on Flora's cheek spoke more of exultation than of
shame; the bouquet which she raised to her lips only half concealed a
smile of triumph. She wreathed her slender neck haughtily while she met
her rival's glance without flinching. She thought that, if she had
played for a heavy stake--no less than the jeopardy of her fair
fame--this time, at least, the game was her own.
Constance spoke first, in a voice perfectly measured and composed.
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