The dusky obscurity of the room was twice welcome. Her father and her husband, who had both been a little pale at their first encounter, were growing now just faintly flushed. “I wish that I could forget it,” he said. After all, it was really rather funny. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. “Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. I have plenty of money, and the Duke will not be in the next Cabinet. “She has always worked very long hours as a real estate agent. I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know. ” She felt humiliated.
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