It was with some reluctance that she opened Lady Bassett's letter
in his presence, but she felt that she owed him this small mark of
confidence.
There was a strong aroma of attar of roses as she drew it from the
envelope, and she glanced at Grange with an expression of disgust.
"What is the matter?" he asked. "Nothing wrong, I hope?"
"It's only the scent," she explained, concealing a faint sense of
irritation.
He smiled. "Don't you like it? I thought all women did."
"My dear Blake!" she said, and shuddered.
The next minute she threw a sharp look over her shoulder, suddenly
assailed by an uncanny feeling that Nick was standing grimacing at
her elbow. She saw his features so clearly for the moment with his
own peculiarly hideous grimace upon them that she scarcely persuaded
herself that her fancy had tricked her. But there was nothing but the
twilight of the garden all around her, and Blake's huge bulk by her
side, and she promptly dismissed the illusion, not without a sense of
shame.
With a gesture of impatience she unfolded Lady Bassett's letter. It
commenced "Dearest Muriel," and proceeded at once in terms of flowing
elegance to felicitate her upon her engagement to Blake Grange.
"In according our consent," wrote Lady Bassett, "Sir Reginald and I
have not the smallest scruple or hesitation.
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