I opened my writing-desk and wrote just two lines,—a polite request for a few moments of interview, signed “A. S. Pottinger.” I wrote the name in a fine text hand, as though to say, “No more blunders, madam, this is large as print.”
“Take this to your mistress, François,” said I to the courier.
“Gone to bed, sir.”
“Gone to bed! why, it's only eight o'clock.”
A shrug and a smile were all he replied.
“And Miss Herbert,—can I speak to her?”
“Fear not, sir; she went to her room, and told Clementina not to disturb her.”
“It is of consequence, however, that I should see her. I want to make arrangements for to-morrow,—the hour we are to start—”
“Oh! but we are to stop here over to-morrow; I thought monsieur knew that,” said the fellow, with the insolent grin of a menial at knowing more than his betters.
“Oh, to be sure we are,” said I, laughingly, and affecting to have suddenly remembered it. “I forgot all about it, François; you are quite right. Take a glass of wine, Francois,—or take the bottle with you, that's better.” And I handed him a flask of Hocheimer of eight florins, right glad to get rid of his presence and escape further scrutiny from his prying glances.