She
sprang from her seat and rushed screaming down the room, an awful mass
of flame!
In ten more minutes Lady Honoria had left this world and its pleasures
to those who still lived to taste them.
An hour passed. Geoffrey still sat brooding heavily over his pipe in the
study in Bolton Street and waiting for Honoria, when a knock came to his
door. The servants had all gone to bed, all except the sick nurse.
He rose and opened it himself. A little red-haired, pale-faced man
staggered in.
"Why, Garsington, is it you? What do you want at this hour?"
"Screw yourself up, Bingham, I've something to tell you," he answered in
a thick voice.
"What is it? another disaster, I suppose. Is somebody else dead?"
"Yes; somebody is. Honoria's dead. Burnt to death at the ball."
"Great God! Honoria burnt to death. I had better go----"
"I advise you not, Bingham. I wouldn't go to the hospital if I were you.
Screw yourself up, and if you can, give me something to drink--I'm about
done--I must screw myself up."
And here we may leave this most fortunate and gifted man.
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