It was altogether strange and unaccountable, and he was at a loss to account for the girl’s conduct.
Upon rejoining Madame Trieste and Theresa in the house, he seemed so abstracted and preoccupied that his hostess regarded him with a look of commiseration, being under the impression at the time that he was indisposed.
She asked him if he felt unwell.
He answered in the affirmative, being but too glad to avail himself of any excuse to be by himself. He therefore retired to his room.
It was by this time a little after ten o’clock, and he might have to wait a long time for the arrival of the maid.
He opened the window of his apartment, and gazed out. A panorama of beauty lay before him, which was lighted up by the silver rays of the moon and myriads of stars.
Lord Ethalwood surveyed the scene with something like satisfaction, for the temperature was soft and mild, and a light breeze, laden with the perfume of flowers, fanned his cheeks.
But as yet Agatha had not made her appearance.
Possibly it might be, after all, a mere girlish whim—a caprice forgotten almost as soon as expressed.
“What could she have to tell? No matter,” murmered the English nobleman, “I will wait patiently. It may be something of moment, or it may be a mere trifle—any way I will wait. I am far removed from friends and home, and my mother in her last letter begs of me to return to London with all convenient speed. Perhaps she suspects that there are attractions in this district, and to say the truth she is not far out——”