“Before the end of the week?”
“I cannot say.”
He was evidently trying to get away, whilst she was straining every nerve to keep him back for a moment or two.
“Percy,” she said, “will you not tell me why you go to-day? Surely I, as your wife, have the right to know. You have not been called away to the North. I know it. There were no letters, no couriers from there before we left for the opera last night, and nothing was waiting for you when we returned from the ball. . . . You are not going to the North, I feel convinced. . . . There is some mystery . . . and . . .”
“Nay, there is no mystery, Madame,” he replied, with a slight tone of impatience. “My business has to do with Armand . . . there! Now, have I your leave to depart?”
“With Armand? . . . But you will run no danger?”
“Danger? I? . . . Nay, Madame, your solicitude does me honour. As you say, I have some influence; my intention is to exert it before it be too late.”
“Will you allow me to thank you at least?”
“Nay, Madame,” he said coldly, “there is no need for that. My life is at your service, and I am already more than repaid.”
“And mine will be at yours, Sir Percy, if you will but accept it, in exchange for what you do for Armand,” she said, as, impulsively, she stretched out both her hands to him. “There! I will not detain you . . . my thoughts go with you . . . Farewell! . . .”