cloud of orris-root it seemed—hung in the panting air. The brightly coloured parasols danced and dipped like monstrous butterflies.
She made her brother talk of himself, his hopes, his prospects. He spoke slowly and with effort. They passed words to each other as players at a game pass counters.
Sibyl felt oppressed. She could not communicate her joy. A faint smile curving that sullen mouth was all the echo she could win.
After some time she became silent. Suddenly she caught a glimpse of golden hair and laughing lips, and in an open carriage with two ladies Dorian Gray drove past.
She started to her feet.
“There he is!” she cried.
“Who?” said Jim Vane.
“Prince Charming,” she answered, looking after the victoria.
He jumped up and seized her roughly by the arm.
“Show him to me. Which is he? Point him out. I must see him!”
he exclaimed; but at that moment the Duke of Berwick’s four-in-hand came between, and when it had left the space clear, the carriage had swept out of the park.
“He is gone,” murmured Sibyl sadly. “I wish you had seen him.”
“I wish I had, for as sure as there is a God in heaven, if he ever does you any wrong, I shall kill him.”