Adèle had risen from the sofa. She was listening to her mother's tale with earnest eyes fixed on her face. When it was over she gave a low, deep-drawn sigh: "Maurice, mamma? Are you sure his name was Maurice?"
"The Englishman's, Adèle? Yes, Count —— called him by that name once or twice in the course of our conversation."
Adèle clasped her hands: "Then there can be no doubt it is the same. That will explain her sadness. Some fearful misunderstanding has come between them. Oh how I wish I could see Count ——! or if Arthur would only come! Perhaps—mamma, how delightful it would be!—perhaps we shall be able to set it all right—to make her happy again!"
Mrs. Churchill groaned: "I thought my story would have had the effect of curing you, Adèle; and now I believe you are actually farther gone than ever with your enthusiasm and your poetic notions. When shall I teach you that all this is childish? 'Perhaps you will set all right'—'make her life happy!' Perhaps, rather, you will obey your mother, and have nothing further to do with a person who has deceived her husband and is otherwise not at all correct. Why, if I don't very much mistake—and I can say, without boasting, I think that I am always pretty well up in these matters—before the season is over your Mrs. Grey will be the talk of every dinner-table in London, for Count —— tells his story freely, and he seems to have the entrée everywhere. 'Miss Churchill's particular friend'—that would be a pleasant addition to the tale when repeated with sundry additions, my dear, in our circle of acquaintance. Thank Goodness! Arthur is the only person who knows anything of your absurd adventure, and his tongue is happily tied."
Adèle looked up indignantly: "Don't think that I shall hide from anybody my friendship for Margaret Grey," she said; "you may feel ashamed—I glory in it. All I regret is that I did so little for her when I had the opportunity." Then, softening, "If you had once seen her, mamma, you could never have believed these cruel tales."
"I should have instantly fallen under the spell, no doubt, like you and Arthur? No, Adèle, it is long since a pretty face affected me so powerfully; indeed, I never remember being so absurdly romantic as you are. But, dear me! there are visitors; you look rather pale, so I suppose, for this one afternoon, I must let you off and leave you here with your book."
Mrs. Churchill really loved her daughter, though she did not quite understand her, but she was certainly tolerably gentle toward what she looked upon as her follies. She stooped and kissed her on the brow before she left the room, saying, with something between a smile and a sigh, "Ah, my dear, perhaps some day you will understand your mother better."
Adèle returned the caress affectionately, but it was a relief to her when the door of her mother's boudoir closed behind her and she was left alone to think and plan, for the story of the Russian had thrown a new light on the subject that had engrossed her so much since that May afternoon in the Academy.