"From Master Robin, maybe, sayin' when he'll be home again," she suggested
conversationally, while Ann tore open the envelope and withdrew the flimsy
sheet.
"_Don't come to-night_,--FORRESTER."
Ann looked up from the single line of writing and spoke mechanically.
"No, it's not from Robin," she said. And tearing the telegram across she
tossed the pieces into the fire, where a swift tongue of flame shot up and
consumed them.
She was conscious of an immense surge of relief. She could not imagine what
had happened. Possibly Cara had seen Brett and interceded with him. Or
perhaps it was merely that some unexpected happening had made the projected
supper an impossibility for that particular night.
But whatever it was, it meant a reprieve. A reprieve! She could hold her
happiness unharmed a little longer....
CHAPTER XXXII
ON BOARD THE "SPHINX"
Brett glanced over the supper-table, laid for two, with an experienced
eye. The lights, shining down upon dainty silver and crystal, added a more
lustrous sheen to the crimson petals, like fringed velvet, of a bowl of
exquisite deep-red carnations, and flickered gaily on the bright neck of a
gold-foiled bottle which twinkled in the midst of the cool greyness of a
pail of ice.
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