Sir Harold Annesley had been in England so short a time that he had made few friends, and not even these had any particular claim upon him. He had no reason to consider them; he had no explanations to make. Was he of any importance, after all? There would be
“Show me into a room where I am not likely to be interrupted,” the old soldier said to the footman who stepped forward. “And tell Lady Elaine that I am here upon a matter of great urgency.” The footman grasped the situation with alacrity. The colonel was a favorite with
“She is heartless, soulless!” groaned Sir Harold. “Oh, Elaine, why should you be so fair and fickle?” He paced the floor like a man distraught. His eyes were bloodshot, his face ashy pale. This misery was more bitter than death. He had given the one great love of his life;
Sir Harold Annesley was the most envied of men among his kind. He was young, wealthy and famous; possessed of a splendid physique, and the representative of an old and honorable line. There was no blot on the escutcheon of the Annesleys; the men had ever been noble and brave,
“She is the loveliest girl in all England,” the papers said, when the engagement of Sir Harold Annesley and Lady Elaine Seabright was announced. “And Sir Harold is the lion of the season. Both are extremely wealthy, and it is in every way a most suitable match.” The wooing and