Luttrell's sister! Did you know that I should be here too?" he says, as he takes a chair next me.
"No, indeed!" How small my voice sounds! How tongue-tied I always am before this man!
"I hope you left all well at home?"
"Quite well, thank you."
(Is Silvia ever coming? It only wants one minute to eight.)
"Do you know," I say rather nervously, "that you will see an old friend presently—or perhaps you have seen her already?"
"Do you mean Miss Fleming?" he asks quietly. "No, I have not seen her yet."
The door opens and enter Silvia. As she comes up the long rooms I see her clearly enough, a thought larger, a shade more voluptuous than she used to be—a woman now, not a girl. She wears dead white silk, with costly lace at breast and elbow, and faint golden yellow roses in her hair and the front of her gown. Her beauty strikes me as freshly and surprisedly as it did the first time I ever saw her.
Sir George Vestris goes to meet her with almost humble devotion, but she looks around her, seeking, I think, Paul Vasher, and he rises and approaches her. They are so near me that I could touch either with my hand, and cannot choose but hear their words.
"How do you do, Miss Fleming?" says Paul.
"Quite well, thank you, Mr. Vasher."
"It is many years since we met," says the gentleman politely.
"It does not seem so long," says the lady.
"Dinner is served," announces the butler.
"Will you take in my sister, Mr. Vasher?" says Milly and I put my hand under his arm.
So this is the meeting after long years between these two once passionate, despairing lovers. Cold and indifferent as their words
