"
Stafford had said nothing. Goaded by Travers' words and blinded by the
catastrophe which had broken upon him, he had acted without thought,
without consideration, for the first time in his life obeying the
behests of a headlong impulse. He had asked Beatrice to be his wife,
and to-night was to put the final seal upon their alliance. Again it
was Travers who had spoken the decisive word.
"A secret engagement is a piece of folly," he said, "and Miss Cary is
mad to wish it. For your sake as well as hers, everything must be
above-board. Or are you shirking?"
Stafford had made a hot retort. It was not in the scope of his
character to turn back on a road which he had marked out for himself,
and he waited now for Beatrice with the unshaken resolution of a man
who believes absolutely in himself and his own code. He waited even
with a certain impatience. Shortly before he had seen her standing at
the Rajah's side, a fair and beautiful contrast to his eastern
splendor, and, somehow, in that moment, he had understood Travers'
warning as he had not understood it before. She was to be his wife,
she was to bear his name, and it was his duty to protect her if need
be from herself. He was about to leave the alcove to go in search of
her when she pushed aside the hangings and entered. The suddenness of
her appearance and something in her expression startled him. He did
not notice how radiantly beautiful she was nor the taste and richness
of her dress.
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