Also he had been, in his own priggish way, a very, very good and useful friend to her.

But still, Blanche knew, deep in her heart, that Mark Gifford disapproved of her, that he often misunderstood her, that he was ashamed of the strength of the attraction which made him still wish to make her his wife, and which had kept him a bachelor.
As long as this old friend had known her he had always written her a Christmas letter.

The letter had not come this Christmas, and she had missed it.

But Mark had no idea of where she was, and--and after all, perhaps his faithful friendship had waned at last from lack of real response.
And then, while thinking these rather melancholy, desultory thoughts, Blanche Farrow suddenly experienced a very peculiar sensation.

It was that of finding herself as if impelled to look up from the embroidery-frame over which she was bending.
She did look up; and for a moment her heart--that heart which the way of her life had so atrophied and hardened--seemed to stop beating, for just behind Lionel Varick, whose head was still bent over his newspaper with a complete air of unconcern, interest, and ease--stood, or appeared to stand, two shadowy figures.
She shut her eyes; then opened them again--wide.