She was in one of her old walking-dresses, her hair was done in an unfamiliar manner, she wore a wedding-ring, and she looked as if she had been crying. She had just passed into a little antechamber beyond when she suddenly heard a faint knocking. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. The vast mirrored chamber, with its four little square window bays, two either side of the large raised dais that led to the French doors, was very full of company for the start of the Little Season. “I may go to Hatton House later, but you needn’t wait. "The poor young man!" sighed Angelina. ” She glanced at him, and it was suddenly apparent for one instant of illumination that this ring upon her finger was the crowning blunder of her life.
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