She must give generously,
with both hands wide open, or not at all. Barbara did not think of the
highwayman, but of Gilbert Crosby, and for him she was determined to
sacrifice herself. Dreams she had had, dreams which ended in happiness;
now such an ending was impossible, but the man who had inspired those
dreams was still worthy the sacrifice. It was a woman's argument,
absolutely conclusive to a woman. She had the power to help, and she
meant to use that power.
There was a brilliant company that night at Lady Bolsover's, and
probably Barbara Lanison had never appeared more fascinating. She had
been very careful to wear what became her best; she was bent on
conquest, and so that she conquered fully and completely she recked
little how. Her beauty and her ready wit quickly gathered a crowd about
her, and not one of her enthusiastic admirers guessed that under her
merry speech and laughter was an anxious, sorrowful heart and a wealth
of restrained tears. One or two, whose love and hope had made their
understanding of her keener, may have noticed that her eyes were sharp
to mark each new guest who entered the room. There was someone she
expected and for whom she was waiting.
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