“And you must go at once to her,” he cried, springing up to draw back her chair, “I am so sad for that.”
Molly rose to her feet.
“I’m sorry, too,” she said, nodding a smiling thanks; “but you see I’ve no choice.” And then she went coffee-less away to laugh alone above-stairs.
Von Ibn sat down again and ate his fish in silence. He did not appear greatly perturbed over the twin-silence which was opposite him, rather seeming to reflect upon the fresh reconciliation which was building itself on such a substantial foundation of blushes.
Finally, when the fish was gone, he leaned somewhat forward and spoke very low.
“Oh, que j’étais malheureux hier le soir!” he said in a tone that trembled with feeling; “you can figure to yourself nothing of what it was! And this morning—when I send and find that you are gone!—I must know then that you were very furious of me.”
She raised her eyes, but to the window, not to him.
“I was,” she said briefly, but not the less tensely.
“When you are run last night—on the stairs like that, you know!—it should have been amusing to see you run so fast; but I was not any amused whatever. But why did you run?” he questioned, interrupting himself; “did you think to leave me always then, there, forever? For an instant I had the idea to go after you, but the Portier was there, and I have thought, ‘What may he think?’”
“Oh,” she exclaimed, distressedly, “I altogether forgot him! What do you suppose he did think?”