"Unexpected, no doubt; but pleasure, scarcely. You were not much of an actor at any time; but that would not take in a fool. You are very much astonished to see me, and equally angry; so you may as well acknowledge it."
She tapped her foot again angrily. Next she removed an outer veil, which she had of course put on to mystify me on her entrance; and she stood staring me in the face with a look of defiant hostility.
I shrugged my shoulders, and said:
"You are always more beautiful in a passion, Clara; but I'm sorry to find you in one now with me. Won't you sit down and tell me all about yourself?"
And I recalled regretfully our last interview, and bitterly deplored my stupidity in not having answered her letter. An angry woman, knowing what she knew, could do no end of mischief at this juncture.
"The chief thing about myself, as you say," she exclaimed spitefully, "is that my feelings toward you have changed. I was your friend then, now I will be your enemy."
"Then I am very sorry to hear it"—and the tone was genuine enough. "But, under the circumstances, why take the trouble to come and tell me so?"
"Because I wished to see your Highness, to observe how your Highness bore your great honors, and to bask in the radiant light of your Highness's eyes—ugh! Your Highness, indeed!"
I began to hope. Her bitterness was so very bitter that I thought some of it at least might be assumed.
"How do you play at that game, Clara?" I laughed. "While you are 'basking,' what should I do?"