When the old lady had gone, Cynthia returned to her favorite rose-lighted sitting-room, and sank somewhat languidly into a lounging-chair. She had forbidden Hubert to return to her that night—she had said that she wanted to be alone; and now she was half inclined to repent her own peremptoriness. "I might have let him come just once," she said to herself. "I shall not allow him to come often, or to be anything but a friend to me; but I feel lonely to-night. It is foolish of me to be depressed. A month ago I should have thought myself happy indeed if I could have known that he loved me; and now I am more miserable than ever. I suppose it is the thought of that other girl—mean, jealous, miserable wretch that I am! But I will not be mean or jealous any longer. He has promised himself to her, and he shall keep his word."
She was startled from these reflections by the sound of a tap at the door, followed by the entrance of a maid whose office it was especially to attend on Miss West.
"If you please, miss," she said, in a low and rather confidential tone—"if you please, there's a—a person at the door that asks to see you."
"It is late for visitors," said Cynthia. "A lady, Mary?"
"No, miss."
"A gentleman? I do not see gentlemen, when Madame is out, at this hour of the night. It is ten o'clock. Tell him to come to-morrow."
"I did, miss. He said to-morrow wouldn't do. He asked me to mention 'Beechfield' to you, miss, and to say that he came from America."
"Old or young, Mary?" The color was leaving Cynthia's face.
"Old, miss. He has white hair and black eyes, and looks like a sort of superior working-man."
Cynthia deliberated. Mary watched her in silence, and then made a low-voiced suggestion.