One evening in December there was a drum at Colonel Philipse's town
house, which Margaret did not attend. She had mentioned, as reason for
absenting herself, a cold caught a few nights previously, through her
bare throat being exposed to a chill wind by the accidental falling of
her cloak as she walked to the coach after Mrs. Colden's rout. As the
evening progressed toward hilarity, I observed that Tom Faringfield
became restless and gloomy. At last he approached me, with a face
strangely white, and whispered:
"Do you see?--Captain Falconer is not here!"
"Well, what of that?" quoth I. "Ten to one, he finds these companies
plaguey tiresome."
"Or finds other company more agreeable," replied Tom, with a very dark
look in his eyes.
He left me, with no more words upon the subject. When it was time to
go home, and Mrs. Faringfield and Fanny and I sought about the rooms
for him, we found he had already taken his leave. So we three had the
chariot to ourselves, and as we rode I kept my own thoughts upon Tom's
previous departure, and my own vague dread of what might happen.
But when Noah let us in, all seemed well in the Faringfield house.
Margaret was in the parlour, reading; and she laid down her book to
ask us pleasantly what kind of an evening we had had. She was the only
one of the family up to receive us, Mr. Faringfield having retired
hours ago, and Tom having come in and gone to bed without an
explanation.
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