Then I drew
them both away from the door and from the gallery, walking to the
shadows of the long row of elms which shaded the street, where we would
be less observed.
For the first time in my life I saw the two together and might compare
them. Without my will or wish I found my eyes resting upon Ellen.
Without my will or wish, fate, nature, love, I know not what, made
selection.
Ellen had not as yet spoken. "Miss Sheraton," I repeated to her finally,
"is the lady to whom I am engaged to be married."
The vicious Sheraton temper broke bounds. There was more than half a
sneer on my fiancee's face. "I should easily know who this lady is," she
said.
Ellen, flushed, perturbed, would have returned to the gallery, but I
raised my hand. Grace Sheraton went on. "An engagement is little. You
and he, I am advised, lived as man and wife, forgetting that he and I
were already pledged as man and wife."
"That is not true!" broke in Ellen, her voice low and even. She at least
had herself in hand and would tolerate no vulgar scene.
"I could not blame either of you for denying it."
"It was Gordon Orme that told her," I said to Ellen.
She would not speak or commit herself, except to shake her head, and to
beat her hands softly together as I had seen her do before when in
distress.
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