“Thank you,” I said miserably, and went into the hotel to pack my things. The worst had come, then, for, much as I disliked Mrs. Gordon, I did not do her the injustice to suppose that she was lying.
Perhaps I ought to have trusted Jacqueline more. I should have known that no good woman listens lightly to a man’s declaration of love; and she had listened to mine. But, again, Jacqueline had given me no assurance whatever that she returned my love. She had found it difficult to make up her mind, not only as to whether she really loved me, but whether I were really in earnest in declaring my love for her. And so that evening I walked very soberly toward the steamboat-landing, followed by the porter with my bag.
The little steamer had given its warning toot, my bag was aboard, I was about to follow, when I turned, hoping for one last glimpse of Jacqueline. To my surprise, she was running toward me. She was in distress. In an instant I was at her side.
“What, what does it mean, you going away like this?” she panted.
“I am going back to Venice, Jacqueline,” I answered her gravely.
“To Venice!” she cried, dismayed. “To Venice this evening, and without saying good-by to me? Why?”
“I have had a tiff, dear Jacqueline, with your aunt, and she has ordered me off. I leave the field,” I added a little bitterly, “to a handsomer, and I wish I could say to a better, man.”
She withdrew the hand she had given me, and flushed angrily. Then her face became very pale.
“Forgive me, Jacqueline, I did not mean to hurt you.”
“And what has my aunt told you?” she almost whispered.