'I remember.'
The dancers formed in line, and waited. A door opened at the
farther end of the hall, and a lady in black silk came forth. She
bowed, smiled, and proceeded to the top of the dance.
'Who is that lady?' said Alwyn, in a puzzled tone. 'I thought you
told me that the Duchess of Hamptonshire--'
'That is the Duchess,' said his informant.
'But there is another?'
'No; there is no other.'
'But she is not the Duchess of Hamptonshire--who used to--' Alwyn's
tongue stuck to his mouth, he could get no farther.
'What's the matter?' said his acquaintance. Alwyn had retired, and
was supporting himself against the wall.
The wretched Alwyn murmured something about a stitch in his side
from walking. Then the music struck up, the dance went on, and his
neighbour became so interested in watching the movements of this
strange Duchess through its mazes as to forget Alwyn for a while.
It gave him an opportunity to brace himself up. He was a man who
had suffered, and he could suffer again. 'How came that person to
be your Duchess?' he asked in a firm, distinct voice, when he had
attained complete self-command. 'Where is her other Grace of
Hamptonshire? There certainly was another. I know it.'
'Oh, the previous one! Yes, yes. She ran away years and years ago
with the young curate. Mr. Hill was the young man's name, if I
recollect.'
'No! She never did. What do you mean by that?' he said.
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