Her replies to Mr.Stanford were pointedly cold and brief.

She sat, looking very pretty in her blue glace and bright curls, her fingers toying idly with her chatelaine and trinkets, and as unapproachable as a grand duchess.
Mr.Stanford made no attempt to approach her.

He sat and talked to his betrothed of the old times and the old friends and places, and seemed to forget there was any one else in the world.

Rose listened, with a heart swelling with angry bitterness--silent, except when discreetly addressed by Kate, and longing vindictively to spring up and tell the handsome, treacherous Englishman what she thought of him there and then.
As luncheon hour drew near, her father, who had been absent, returned with Sir Ronald Keith and Doctor Danton.

They were all going upstairs; but Kate, with a happy flush on her face, looked out of the drawing-room door.
"Come in papa," she said; "come in, Sir Ronald; there is an old friend here." She smiled a bright invitation to the young Doctor, who went in also.
Reginald Stanford stood up.