"Come, Priscilla," said Zenobia; "it is time. Mr. Coverdale,
good-evening."
As Priscilla moved slowly forward, I met her in the middle of the
drawing-room.
"Priscilla," said I, in the hearing of them all, "do you know whither
you are going?"
"I do not know," she answered.
"Is it wise to go, and is it your choice to go?" I asked. "If not, I
am your friend, and Hollingsworth's friend. Tell me so, at once."
"Possibly," observed Westervelt, smiling, "Priscilla sees in me an
older friend than either Mr. Coverdale or Mr. Hollingsworth. I shall
willingly leave the matter at her option."
While thus speaking, he made a gesture of kindly invitation, and
Priscilla passed me, with the gliding movement of a sprite, and took
his offered arm. He offered the other to Zenobia; but she turned her
proud and beautiful face upon him with a look which--judging from what
I caught of it in profile--would undoubtedly have smitten the man dead,
had he possessed any heart, or had this glance attained to it. It
seemed to rebound, however, from his courteous visage, like an arrow
from polished steel. They all three descended the stairs; and when I
likewise reached the street door, the carriage was already rolling away.