She had fallen wholly in
love with Lord Dunholm--with his handsome, elderly face, his voice, his
erect bearing, his fine smile, his attraction of manner, his courteous
ease and wit. He was one of the men who stood for the best of all they
had been born to represent. Her own father, she felt, stood for the best
of all such an American as himself should be. Lord Westholt would in
time be what his father was. He had inherited from him good looks, good
feeling, and a sense of humour. Yes, he had been given from the outset
all that the other man had been denied. She was thinking of Mount
Dunstan as "the other man," and spoke of him.
"You know Lord Mount Dunstan?" she said.
Westholt hesitated slightly.
"Yes--and no," he answered, after the hesitation. "No one knows him very
well. You have not met him?" with a touch of surprise in his tone.
"He was a passenger on the Meridiana when I last crossed the Atlantic.
There was a slight accident and we were thrown together for a few
moments. Afterwards I met him by chance again. I did not know who he
was."
Lord Westholt showed signs of hesitation anew. In fact, he was rather
disturbed. She evidently did not know anything whatever of the Mount
Dunstans.
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