It was
unmistakably Euphemia! His eyes instinctively sought Clementina's. She
was gazing at him with such a grave, penetrating look,--half doubting,
half wistful,--a look so unlike her usual unruffled calm that he felt
strangely stirred. But the next moment, when she rejoined him, the look
had entirely gone. "You have not seen my sister since you were at Sidon,
I believe?" she said quietly. "She would be sorry to miss you." But
Euphemia and her train were already passing them on the opposite side of
the long table. She had evidently recognized Grant, yet the two sisters
were looking intently into each other's eyes when he raised his own.
Then Euphemia met his bow with a momentary accession of color, a
coquettish wave of her hand across the table, a slight exaggeration of
her usual fascinating recklessness, and smilingly moved away. He turned
to Clementina, but here an ominous tapping at the farther end of the
long table revealed the fact that Mr. Harcourt was standing on a chair
with oratorical possibilities in his face and attitude. There was
another forward movement in the crowd and--silence. In that solid,
black-broadclothed, respectable figure, that massive watchchain, that
white waistcoat, that diamond pin glistening in the satin cravat,
Euphemia might have seen the realization of her prophetic vision at
Sidon five years before.
He spoke for ten minutes with a fluency and comprehensive business-like
directness that surprised Grant.
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