"Mamma!" In Adèle's excitement she rose to a sitting posture on the sofa and her cheeks flamed suddenly into an angry crimson. "You may say what you like; I know that Margaret Grey is good and true, and it's too bad to believe in nobody."
Her excitement rather alarmed good Mrs. Churchill. "Adèle! Adèle!" she said, "do, like a good child, make an effort to be reasonable. The next thing will be brain fever if you excite yourself in this way. Silly little goose! try and believe that your mother knows more of the world than you do. Some of these days you will be wiser."
"Never so wise, I hope, as to think ill of everybody," said Adèle, half sobbing after her excitement.
"Well! well!" said her mother soothingly, "only be patient and I will admit that everybody is angelic; indeed, after all, why should I take the trouble of pointing out the fallacy? Circumstances will do that for you before you have lived many more years in the world. But about this Mrs. Grey. Very good I must call her to spare your feelings, and doubtless very beautiful, or she could not have taken such violent possession of the heart and head of my impulsive little daughter. It is a pity, by the bye, Adèle, that Providence did not see fit to make you a boy. It would have been possible then for you to have devoted life and fortune to this interesting person, only I'm not so sure that there's not a lingering weakness for Arthur in your contradictory little heart. There, my dear! don't blush about it; you will certainly have no roses for the evening if you expend them so liberally now, and pale cheeks don't suit your style."
"As if I cared about my style, mamma!"
"Well, if you don't, Adèle, I do; and as, at your age, rouge would be rather absurd, I must beg you to give us some of those pretty little blushes this evening. Perhaps you may be able to persuade Arthur to leave his books for a few hours and escort us to Lady C——'s. Is music, by the bye, among the vanities to which he has sworn undying hatred? Signor Mario has promised her a song, and—ah! I am so bad at names!—the great violinist—you remember, Mr. Godolphin was so wild about him—has promised to attend. But really, Adèle," Mrs. Churchill gave an impatient sigh, "one might think you a worn-out woman of the world, or six seasons out at least; you take not the slightest interest in anything I tell you."
Adèle reddened: "I beg your pardon, mamma. No doubt it will be pleasant, and the beautiful new necklace you gave me to-day will be the very thing to wear. If Arthur comes in I shall ask him; but what were you saying a few minutes ago about Mrs. Grey?"
"That interests you far more than either soirée or necklace, I do believe. I wonder how it is, Adèle, that you are so very different from other girls at your age? What I have heard is, after all, not much; and mind, if it excites you I shall leave off telling you at once. It does not redound particularly to the credit of your friend."
Again Adèle buried her face in the sofa-pillow: "Who told you, mamma?"
"You remember that handsome young Russian at Mrs. Gordon's the other night. He took me in to supper, and we got into conversation. Very frank and open these foreigners are—there is none of that English reserve about them. He told me at once what brought him to London. It seems he is in search of an English friend, a certain Maurice Grey, who, after having made himself quite the rage in St. Petersburg (he was staying with the young count's father), suddenly disappeared, leaving no trace behind him. He would not let his friends know where he was going, nor did he write a single line to tell of his safe arrival at any point in his journey. It appears that one and another in St. Petersburg began talking about him, and it came out that he had let fall certain mysterious hints about a great sorrow, weariness of life, and so on—in your romantic style, Adèle. Whether he only wished to make himself interesting to the ladies—who seem to have been the chief movers of the rumor—does not precisely appear: I should think it highly probable. However, St. Petersburg society took a different view. When a week passed and nothing was heard of Maurice Grey, his friends killed him—that is, they determined among themselves that he had killed himself. There seems to have been quite a fever of anxiety about the young man's fate. At last the young count, to satisfy his fair relatives and friends—himself also, for he firmly believes in his English guest, mystery and all—came over here, thinking that in London he might find some clue to his whereabouts. And now comes the part of the story which may perhaps fit in with yours. There are a good many Greys, so I did not particularly interest myself until Count —— informed me by way of sequel that during a former visit of his to London his friend, Maurice Grey, had married one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. It was, of course, the prevailing idea in St. Petersburg that a woman had something to do with the Englishman's gloom, and as he never made the faintest allusion to his wife, it had been presumed that her conduct after marriage had caused a separation or a scandal of some kind. Count —— has set on foot an inquiry about this person. Mrs. Grey—Margaret, he told me, was her Christian name—must certainly be still living. He heard of her from her man of business, but her place of residence is, for some reason, kept a profound secret."