Lucy was filled with happiness, it was her third Christmas at the Becks. He knew. He was no longer in military uniform, and it was evident from his suit of brown brocade that he had been disturbed while preparing for an evening engagement. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. He was an imaginative young man. We can be friends again.
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