reflection of fine lines and
sharpened features. If she should wilt under this prolonged obligation of
nursing, her years openly advertise their number, and she grow faded,
_passee_, a woman who visibly has outlived her prime? She could have
shaken the insufficiently dying General in his bed! Yes, insufficiently
dying--for, in heaven's name, let him make up his mind and that
speedily--get well and make himself useful, or veritably and finally
depart before, for the preservation of her good looks, it was too late.

"I met Sir Charles Verity at the station," Wace went on. "He was coming
out of the first class _salle d'attente_. He stopped and spoke to me,
enquired for cousin Fred; but his manner was peculiar, autocratic to a
degree. He made me feel in the way, feel that he was annoyed at my being
there and wanted to get rid of me."

"Imagination, my dear Marshall. In all probability he wasn't thinking
about you one way or the other, but merely about his own affairs, his
own--as Carteret reports--remarkably clever book.--But why, I wonder, was
he at the station so early?"

Henrietta stood turning the folded newspaper about and idly scanning the
head-lines, while the wind, entering by the open casements at the end of
the corridor, lifted and fluttered the light blue gauze scarf she wore
round her shoulders over her white frilled morning gown.

"He didn't tell me," the large, soft, very hot young man said. "You may
call it imagination, Cousin Henrietta; but I can't. I am positive his
manner was intentional. He meant to snub me, by intimating of how slight
account I am in his estimation. It was exceedingly galling. I do not want
to employ a vulgar expression--but he looked down his nose at me as if I
was beneath contempt. You know that insolent, arrogant way of his?"

"Oh, la-la!" Henrietta cried. "Don't be so childish!"--Though she did in
point of fact know the said way perfectly well and admired it. Once upon
a time hadn't Sir Charles, indeed, rather superbly practised it in
her--Henrietta's--defence?

She sighed; while her temper took a nasty turn towards her yellow-faced,
apologetic little General, waiting patiently for sight of the English
newspapers, under the veil of mosquito netting in his little bed. Even in
his roaring forties--had his forties ever roared though?--she doubted
it--not to save his life could he ever have looked down his nose at an
offending fellow-man like that.--Ah! Charles Verity--Charles Verit