"And Miss Dent?" he asked.
However, the maid had just broken the Baden-Powell tea-cup. Its
fragments were still upon the floor, and she had no mind, just then,
to face her young mistress.
"Miss Dent is not at home," she answered, with glib mendacity. And
then she wondered why it was that Weldon's pallor turned from white
to gray, as he went away down the steps.
Nevertheless, he fulfilled his resolution of going to the reception
at the Citadel. For one reason, he had given his word to Carew.
Moreover, he felt that, for the honor of his manhood, he must accept
his fate like a man. Four months before that time, Ethel Dent had
stabbed him almost to the death. Now, with delicate precision, she
had struck him full across the face. The touch had hurt him far more
than the deeper wound had done; but, at least, she should never be
aware of it. To his mind, she had forfeited all right to the
knowledge.
He dressed with careful precision. More than once he was forced to
sit down for a moment; more than once his fingers refused to do his
bidding and his hands dropped inertly at his side. However, Carew
found him waiting, hat in hand, and together they drove away to the
Citadel.
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