The Prince George's enquirer and southern Maryland advertiser. (Upper Marlborough, Md.) 1882-1925, 1908-04-24
CHAPTER V.
Continued.

CHAPTER v.
Continued.
Jane grew more and more agitated,
and in her confusion her flowers fell
from her hands; Mohun picked them
up.
"Ask me for your bouquet, Miss
Grand, or 1 shall think that I may
keep it."
Then she was forced to look up, and
give him all the secret of her most
fresh and innocent face.
"Mr. Mohun, will you return it to
me? Please do?"
And she held out her hand to Gift
ford
He dropped the flowers to the ground
he caught her hand-her waist. The
loneliness, the hour, the utter artless-
ness of the girls own love. had swept
away Gifford's last prudential scru-
piles. Worldly advantages, worldly
opinion, were intangible and afar;
these beautiful scarlet lips, trembling
so close to his, were living and warm
and present: and the concrete, rather
than the abstract, is apt to be powerful
over far stronger natures than Clifford
Mohun's at twenty-one.
"Jane"
"Giffordr'
l doubt if anywhere, save in mildest
romance, a declaration of real passion
was ever prefaced by the words, Il
love you" Verbal confession belongs
to much calmer and more RETROSPECT
tive stage of feeling. "Jane"-"Gif-
ford" What more was there for Mo-
hun to ask or for her to tell?
The time went by, and they knew it
not. Mrs. Tennant-into whose willing
hand Clifford had reposed the admins
tratiye department of the ballroom
Mrs. Tenant, sore wearied by the dis
cOuraging nature of her task, saw
dance after dance pass away. partner
after partner enslaved, momentarily,
by her two smiling daughters (for they
can smile and dance on, these tender
innocent victims, even in their direst
moment of defeaD, and still the one
human being in the house worth car
ing for-the one for whom those Lon
don dresses. those wreaths, those
smiles had been got ready-the heir to
Yatton-did not return. The spirits Of
Mrs. and the Miss Tennants-in COM
mon with those of most other mothers
and daughters there present-were not
raised when, just before supper, Mr..
Mohun came back, with Jane Grand,
very flushed and subdued, but happy
looking, upon his arm. Neither was
public confidence at all heightened by
the warmth with which he rushed off
to escort the members wife to supper,
leaving Jane to share Follett's atten-
ton with Miss Lynch.
Did he not contrive that she should
sit exactly opposite him at the centre
table? Jane Grand at a centre table!
Was there not something unmistakable
in his tone as he reached across to her
and said:
Miss Grand, let me help you to some
6hicken?'
Was there not triumph, which even
her finished perfidy could not dissimu-
late, in the glance with which she
looked up and answered.:
"Thank you. Mr.. Mohun think l
would rather have some jelly?"
An instructive gloom like that which,
without tangible cause, is frequently
known to overtake the political or
financial world-a feeling that the
game was up, an unknown, ignoble
enemy already in possession of the
field, overcame the whole female por-
ton of Gifford's guests; for even the
youngest married woman. with infant
daughters, sympathetic depression, in
seeing poor fellow like Clifford yolun-
tarily throw himself away.
The dancing after supper was slack.
No one wanted to keep their carriage
waiting ten minutes longer than it was
originally ordered; and the general
temper and spirit of families. as they
drove back to their homes. were the
reverse of those genial and lively ones
in which, some four or five hours prev
iously they had entered the first gates
of Yatton Park.
And Jane Grand! Through the dull,
monotonous days, through the sleep
less, weary nights, from which Jane
has looked back to the short-lived sea-
son of her joy, she has often striven
to recall the sensation of those intense
~ happy hours that succeeded her first
knowledge of Mohun's love for her.
Striven, but in vain. She can re-
member the throngs of faces, the
lights, the musician remember the
moment when Clifford fingered after he
had placed her in the carriage; and
how Miss Lynch talked OH unwearied-
ly, and how the vicar was singularly
grave and thoughtful as they drove
slowly home through the dim day
break of the overshadowed summer
lanes. But all besides-the color, the
form, the passionate essence of those
few. best hours of her existence-is.
and will ever be blank to her