"Paulina Durski is one of the handsomest women I ever saw; not above
five-and-twenty years of age--elegant, fascinating, patrician--a woman
for whose sake a wiser man than Douglas Dale might be willing to
sacrifice himself."
"I will see Mr. Dale," exclaimed Lydia. "I will ascertain from his own
lips whether there is any foundation for this report."
"How will you contrive to see him?" "You must arrange that for me. You
can invite him to dinner."
"I can invite him; but the question is whether he will come. Perhaps,
if you were to write him a note, he would be more flattered than by any
verbal invitation from me."
Lydia was not slow to take this hint. She wrote one of those charming
and flattering epistles which an artful and self-seeking woman of the
world so well knows how to pen. She expressed her surprise and regret
at not having seen Mr. Dale since her return to town--her fear that he
might be ill, her hope that he would accept an invitation to a friendly
dinner with herself and her brother, who was also most anxious about
him.
She was not destined to disappointment. On the following day she
received a brief note from Mr. Dale, accepting her invitation for the
next evening.
The note was very stiffly--nay, almost coldly worded; but Lydia
attributed the apparent lack of warmth to the reserved nature of
Douglas Dale, rather than to any failure of her own scheme.
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