Poor thing! Any excuse would have sufficed to account for her coming to try to discover why it was that her lover had not visited her for nearly a week.
“I do not think it is here,” said Mr. Weems; “I am sure it is not, or I should have seen it.”
“Then it is lost beyond recovery,” exclaimed Leonie, sinking into a chair, and fanning herself, while she looked very hard at the artist, who pretended to be busy with his picture.
“Haven’t heard anything from your father yet, I suppose?” said Mr. Weems, after a painful interval of silence.
“Nothing; absolutely nothing. Poor mother is nearly distracted. We are in great trouble. And I thought, Julius, you would have been with us more during this trial.”
“Well,” said Mr. Weems, “you see I have been so very busy, and I have had so many engagements, that I could not find time enough to call very frequently.”
“It looked almost like neglect,” said Leonie, sadly. “I could hardly bear it.” And she put her handkerchief to her eyes.
“Confound it!” said Mr. Weems to himself, “now there is going to be a scene.”
“Mother said she could hardly believe that you really loved me,” continued Leonie.
“She said that, did she?” asked Mr. Weems, somewhat bitterly. “Did she ask you if you really loved me?”