He was not in the humor for the gay and talkative crowd, and wanted a little quiet.
He sank down in a cool corner of the velvet lounge and fixed his dark eyes upon the floor.
"Why did I come back?" he mused. "They think me dead; they have forgotten me—they have ceased to mourn for me, and others have stepped into my place. I had better leave the world which knows me no more, and try for a new life in some new land. I see the best and fairest—she whom I loved—has no thought, no faith that lasts more than twelve months. I see that the rogue flourishes. I am disgusted with the world, and I will leave it. That poor fellow, the escaped convict, has more gratitude and affection and faithfulness than all the rest put together. We will go together—he and I, outcasts—and see the world no more."
He half rose in his bitterness as if to carry out his threat at once and leave the world, but at that moment two persons entered the alcove.
They were Fitz and Violet.
Fitz led Violet to a seat, then, murmuring something about the draught, let down a heavy curtain before the couch on which sat the melancholy Spaniard.
Thus the muser was cut off from the others, a listener, and made a spy much against his will.
Before he could move to make known his presence Fitz spoke, and his tone, more than his words, transfixed the listener to the spot.
"Miss Mildmay," said Fitz, plumping into his task with a nervous precipitance, "I am so glad I can see you alone for a few minutes."
"Yes?" said Violet, looking up with a dreamy, calmly serene gaze, which had nothing of embarrassment and, therefore, nothing of love in it.