"I have seen the young lady frequently in Italy. Will you please to have her informed that I am here?"
"Informed—I! Well, my lord, this is droll! No such person is in my house. I could no longer tolerate her. She is gone."
"What! Your daughter?"
"My daughter! Did I ever say that? Ah, I remember—it was after one of our little suppers, when one gets liberal! But this ingrate was no daughter of mine, but my protege—something to fasten the heart on, as one loves a Skye terrier. Her father was a poor man—very poor, almost degraded, you understand—so, in my unfortunate munificence, I lifted her out of her poverty, gave her some of my own genius, and took her to my bosom, as Cleopatra took the asp; and she stung me, just in the same way, villainous ingrate! This girl has treated me shamefully. I had made such an engagement for her—such concessions—carriage for herself, dressing-maid always in attendance, a boudoir for her retirement, private box, everything that a princess might ask; bills almost made out, and when I come home, she is gone. Read that note, my lord; it lies there at your feet. Read it, and tell me if you ever heard of such base ingratitude."
Lord Hilton took up the crumpled and trodden paper. His eyes eagerly ran over its contents, and brightened as they read; while Olympia prowled around her boudoir, like a newly-caged leopardess.
"Read! read!" she said, "and then say if anything so ungrateful ever lived. No, no, my lord, she is no child of mine. I wash my hands of her—I wash my hands of her!"
Here Olympia laved her white hands in the air, and went through a process of dry washing in the heat of her promenade up and down the room.
"And have you no idea where the young lady has gone?"
"An idea! How should I have ideas? You have read her letter. Well, that is all."
Lord Hilton folded the note, and softly closed his hand over it.