"I wonder why Priscilla has put on that severely plain attire? It makes
her look almost ugly," sighed Lady Raffold. "And how dreadfully pale she
is to-night! Really, I have never seen her look more unattractive."
She turned with her most dazzling smile to receive the American
Ambassador, and no one could have guessed that under her smile was real
anger, because her stepdaughter was gracing the occasion in a robe of
sombre black.
All the guests had arrived with the exception of Ralph Cochrane, the
heir-apparent, as Priscilla styled him, and Lady Raffold chatted with
one eye on the door. It was too bad of the young man to be late.
She was just giving him up in despair, and preparing to proceed to the
dining-room without him, when his name was announced. Lord Raffold went
forward to meet him. Priscilla, sitting on a lounge with Lord Harfield's
mother, caught the sound of a soft, leisurely voice apologising; and
something tightened suddenly at her heart, and held its beating. It was
a voice she knew.
As through a mist, she looked across the great room, with its many
lights, its buzz of careless voices. And suddenly, it seemed to her, she
was back in the little village church at Raffold, furtively watching a
stranger who stood in the entrance, and searched with level scrutiny
quite deliberately and frankly till he found her.
Their eyes met, and her heart thrilled responsively as an instrument
thrills to the hand of a skilled player.
Almost involuntarily she rose. There was some mistake. She knew there
must be some mistake. She felt that in some fashion it rested with her
to explain and to justify his presence there.
But in that instant his eyes left her, and the magnetism that compelled
her died swiftly down. She saw him shake hands with Lady Raffold, and
bow to the Ambassador.
Then came her stepmother's quick, beckoning glance, and she moved
forward in response to it. She was quivering from head to foot,
bewildered, in some subtle fashion afraid.
"My dear, your cousin. He will take you in. Ralph, this is Priscilla."
It was sublimely informal. Lady Raffold had rehearsed that introduction
several times. It was half the battle that the young man should feel
himself one of the family from the outset.
Priscilla grabbed at her self-control, and managed to bow. But the next
instant his hand, strong, warm, reassuring, grasped hers.
"Curious, isn't it?" the quiet voice asked. "We can't be strangers, you
and I."
The grip of his fingers was close and intimate. It was as if he appealed
for her support.
With an effort she forced herself to respond:
"Of course not. It must be quite five years since our first meeting."
He looked at her oddly, quizzically, as he offered his arm.
"Why, yes," he drawled, as they began to move towards the door. "Should
auld acquaintance be forgot? It is exactly five years ago to-day."
X