“God bless you, Pamela!”
“Monsieur, it is only the rose you asked for.”
The door slammed behind him. He held, half stupidly, in his hand a little sweet-smelling stalk with some crushed scarlet flowers.
“My God—oh, my God!” he whispered, “it is part of herself.”
CHAPTER VI.
It was on a day of the last week of broiling July that Ned knocked at the door of a house in the Rue de Ragule, near the Schaerbeck Gate in Brussels, and desired to be shown into the presence of M. le Comte de Lawoestine.
Now it seemed at the outset that his mission was in vain, for monsieur was, and had been for many days, away from home, and it was impossible for one to say when he would return. And whither had he gone? Ah! that was known only to himself, and, possibly, yes, to madame la comtesse. And was madame away also? Madame? Oh! c’était une autre pair de manches. Madame, it would appear, was upstairs at that very moment.
Ned sent up his letter of introduction and—after a rather tiresome interval of waiting—was shown into a room on the first floor. Here, to his astonishment, was the mid-day meal in progress at a long polished table. Two ladies—one seated at either side—continued eating with scarcely a look askance at the stranger; a third, placid and débonnaire, rose from her place at the head of the board and, advancing a step or two, held out her hand.
“I have read maman’s letter,” she said, but speaking in French in a little drowsy voice, “and I have the pleasure to make you welcome, monsieur.”
She then returned to her seat, and bidding a servant lay a cover for monsieur, went on with her dinner. The very antichthon of the galvanic Genlis spirit seemed to slumber in her rosy cheeks. She had settled down to a lifelong “rest,” like an actress availing herself only of the art of her profession to play herself into a fortunate match.