The one solitary link
that still binds him to Cecil Tresilyan will be severed when the letter
is delivered that he holds in his hand.
As the carriage swept round the corner of the terrace, it passed close
to the spot where Armand de Chateaumesnil sat basking in the sunshine.
The invalid lifted his cap in courteous adieu, but his face grew dark,
and his shaggy brows were knit savagely.
"On l'a triche donc, apres tout," he muttered; "Sang Dieu! les absens
ont diablement tort." Sunk as she was at that moment in gloomy
meditations, Cecil never forgot that the last object on which her eyes
lighted in Dorade was the blasted wreck of the crippled Algerian.
Molyneux and his wife stood silent till their friends were quite out of
sight, then Harry turned slowly round and gazed at his _mignonne_. He
knew that the same thought was in both their minds, for her sweet face
was paler than his own. (Neither of them guessed at the truth, and they
saw in Mark Waring nothing more than an old acquaintance of the
Tresilyans.)
"Royston will be here in four hours," he said, "and who will tell him
this? _I_ dare not."
Fanny feigned a carelessness that she was far from feeling.
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