she did not say something striking she would never be asked again.

Doll Loftus, Sybell's husband, was standing by Rachel when Hugh came in.
He felt drawn towards her because she was not "clever," as far as her
appearance went. At any rate, she had not the touzled, ill-groomed hair
which he had learned to associate with female genius.

"This sort of thing is beyond me," he said, mournfully, to Rachel, his
eyes travelling over the assembly gathered round his wife, whose remarks
were calling forth admiring laughter. "I don't understand half they
say, and when I do I sometimes wish I didn't. But I suppose--"
tentatively--"You go in for all this sort of thing?"

"I?" said Rachel, astonished. "I don't go in for anything. But what sort
of thing do you mean?"

"There is Scarlett," said Doll, with relief, who hated definitions, and
felt the conversation was on the slippery verge of becoming deep. "Do
you know him? Looks as if he'd seen a ghost, doesn't he?"

Rachel's interest, never a heavy sleeper, was instantly awakened as she
saw Sybell piloting Hugh towards her. She recognized him--the man she
had seen last night in the hansom and afterwards at the Newhavens. A
glance showed her that his trouble, whatever it might be, had pierced
beyond the surface feelings of anger and impatience and had reached the
quick of his heart. The young man, pallid and heavy-eyed, bore himself
well, and Rachel respected him for his quiet demeanor and a certain
dignity, which, for the moment, obliterated the slight indecision of his
face, and gave his mouth the firmness which it lacked. It seemed to
Rachel as if he had but now stood by a death-bed, and had brought with