Mrs. Stewart sailed majestically up to them at this juncture, and bore Lancaster away in triumph. He heard Mrs. Tremont asking Dorothy, as he moved away, "And how's your poor, dear mother?" Then he found himself being introduced to a personage with a Vandyke beard.
"Ah," said the personage, with some show of interest, "you're an artist? Now, tell me, frankly, why do you Western artists never treat Western subjects?" And then Dick found himself floundering about in a sea of argument with this personage. Afterwards, when the agony was over, he discovered that it was the author, Mr. Wreath, who had thus been catechizing him. It was noised about the world that Mr. Wreath was a monomaniac on the subject of realism. Dick remembered wishing he had caught the man's name at the introduction.
In the meanwhile Miss Tremont stood talking to Dorothy Ware in a dim corner of the room. There was a small table near them, and upon it were scattered portfolios of photographs.
"Do you ever hear of Mr. Wooton?" Miss Tremont asked, smiling sweetly.
Dorothy gave a little start, and a flush touched her cheek.
"He's a very clever man," persisted Miss Tremont. "I congratulate you." She smiled meaningly.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean?" Dorothy's eyes flashed and her fingers toyed nervously with the photographs.
"If I were an expert photographer I could show you what I mean instantly. Speech is so clumsy!"
Dorothy still looked at her blankly, though she felt her heart beating with accelerated speed.
"From what I saw at Schandau," the other went on coldly, "I should say it was time to announce the engagement."
Dorothy gripped the little table with a tight clasp. Bending over, as if to examine the pictures, she felt waves of heat and cold follow each other over her cheeks and forehead. Her breath seemed to choke. How warm the room was! She longed for a breath of fresh air. She would go and tell her mother that she wanted to have the carriage called at once. But there was her mother talking busily with Mrs. Tremont. And there, beyond, was Dick.
Something very like tears came to the borders of her eyes, as Miss Dorothy Ware looked at, and thought of Dick. He had loved her, and she--Ah, well, that was all over now! Even had she been able to compound with her own conscience, Miss Tremont had effectually barred the way to--ah, to everything! There was Miss Tremont talking, now, to Mr. Wreath and to Dick. Surely the girl would not dare--but no, that was absurd!