“Wicked man!” cried the Venosta, shaking her finger at him coquettishly. “You are jealous! Fie! a man should never be jealous of a woman’s rivalry with women;” and then, with a cynicism that might have become a greybeard, she added, “but of his own sex every man should be jealous—though of his dearest friend. Isn’t it so, Colonello?”
The Colonel looked puzzled, bowed, and made no reply. “That only shows,” said Mrs. Morley, rising, “what villains the Colonel has the misfortune to call friends and fellow-men.”
“I fear it is time to go,” said Frank, glancing at the clock.
In theory the most rebellious, in practice the most obedient, of wives, Mrs. Morley here kissed Isaura, resettled her crinoline, and shaking hands with the Venosta, retreated to the door.
“I shall have the wreath yet,” cried the Venosta, impishly. “La speranza e fenamina” (Hope is female).
“Alas!” said Isaura, half mournfully, half smiling, “alas! do you not remember what the poet replied when asked what disease was most mortal?—‘the hectic fever caught from the chill of hope.’”
CHAPTER III.
Graham Vane was musing very gloomily in his solitary apartment one morning, when his servant announced Colonel Morley.
He received his visitor with more than the cordiality with which every English politician receives an American citizen. Graham liked the Colonel too well for what he was in himself to need any national title to his esteem. After some preliminary questions and answers as to the health of Mrs. Morley, the length of the Colonel’s stay in London, what day he could dine with Graham at Richmond or Gravesend, the Colonel took up the ball. “We have been reckoning to see you at Paris, sir, for the last six months.”