"I was sure I put it on. Please excuse me, while I
see if I left it in my room." And she ran swiftly out of the room.
Mrs. Dent broke the pause.
"Where was Mr. Weldon going?"
"To his hotel. I came out, just as they drove away, and I heard the
boy give the order to the driver."
"Which hotel was it?"
"I--Really, I don't remember. He used to go to the Grand."
"He seemed ill?"
"He seemed--" For an instant, Mr. Dent held the word in suspension.
Then he let it drop with a slow quietness which added tenfold to its
weight--"dead."
His wife's gentle eyes clouded.
"I am sorry. I liked the boy. He was good to me."
"I had thought Ethel liked him, too," her husband added a little
inconsequently.
"So she did in a way. But there have been so many others." The
mother sighed slightly. In her young days, there had been but one.
Now, remembering that one and watching him in the present, she found
it hard to comprehend Ethel's free-handed distribution of social
favors among so great a throng of admirers. There had always been
many; now, since her recent return from Johannesburg, the many had
become a multitude, and each of the multitude could show proof of
her liking.
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