“You know an old woman—I call myself old, but I’m offended in an instant if any one else does—an old woman, especially the mother of a pretty girl—you think Miralda pretty, don’t you?”
“By far the prettiest in the rooms to-night.”
“Well, a mother gets into the way of thinking that when a young man pays her attention, it’s vicarious, you know. A woman’s never too old to relish attentions, of course, but I suppose you know that. But in Paris I had my suspicions.”
“Of whom, viscontesse?”
“Of you, Mr. Donnington. Perhaps I should say they were rather hopes than suspicions. You were a great favourite of mine, I’ll admit that. At the same time, I wasn’t quite sure that some of the nice things you said and did were solely on my account. But that’s all over now, of course—over and done with;” and she smiled and fanned herself slowly, looking at me askance through half-closed lids, as if to watch the effect of her words.
Was she warning or reproaching me? Or both? What answer did she expect? “I trust nothing has occurred in the interval to cause me to forfeit your good opinion, madame.”
The fan stopped a moment, as if she detected the double meaning of my words. “Four months is a long time to take to travel a thousand miles or so. I had hoped to see you in Lisbon.”
“I think you know that I was called from Paris suddenly by my father’s illness. He lay for many weeks between life and death, and it was absolutely impossible for me to leave him even for a day. I have come here at the first possible moment.”
The fan stopped again, abruptly this time, and she lowered it slowly until it rested upon her lap; her look was very serious and her eyes full of concern.
“It is only these—these concessions which have brought you here now, Mr. Donnington?” she replied after a pause, her tone and look suggesting some degree of nervous doubt of what my reply would be.