Full of pleasant expectations, Adriana dressed herself in the sunshine, and came downstairs in an unusually merry mood. Miss Alida looked curiously at her. “How fond she is of Harry!” she thought, “and he is not worthy of her.” But worthy or unworthy, it was evident that Adriana was watching 175 for and expecting her lover. “It is so unreasonable of me,” she said to her cousin, “for I told Harry last night that I should not leave the house to-day. He wanted me to drive with him, and I said, ‘No.’ My last drive with him was so happy I feared to spoil its memory. One never knows what might occur to do so—a shower, a cold wind, a bit of temper, or a tight shoe, or something, anything, for which neither of us would be responsible.”
“To be sure!” answered Miss Alida, vaguely. She had a feeling that Adriana had a feeling, and that there was an unacknowledged presentiment between them. So they drove, and drove, and Adriana’s high spirits suddenly left her. Miss Alida also became quiet, and the hour grew monotonous and chilly and gray, and as the best carriages were leaving the drive she gave the order to return home.
They were nearing the Plaza when Miss Alida directed Adriana’s attention to an approaching carriage. It was in a glow of color, and as it drew nearer the colors became robes and wraps of gorgeous shades, and reclining among them was a certain well-known operatic divinity. Harry was with her. His eyes were looking into her eyes, and his whole being was absorbed in the intoxicating sensuous loveliness of his companion. He never saw Adriana. She looked directly at her recreant lover, and he never saw her. There was no need for words. The event was too positive and too flagrant to admit of doubt or palliation.
“To-morrow I shall go to Woodsome,” said Adriana, as they stood a moment in the hall; “to-night, dear cousin, make an excuse for me, if you please.”
But Miss Alida followed Adriana to her room and 176 answered: “Make an excuse for you! Nonsense! See Harry, and tell him what you saw. I hate those sulky quarrels where people ‘think it best to say nothing.’”
“How can I tell him?”
“The plainest way is the easiest way. Tell him you saw him driving in the Park, and ask him very sweetly whom he was driving with. If he tells a lie——”
“I will not tempt him to lie. What could he do else?”
“I would humble him to my very feet.”
“Then I might as well say, ‘Farewell forever,’ for a man at my feet could never be my lover and husband. Oh, cousin, I must say ‘farewell’ in any case. I am so wretched! so wretched!”