Well accustomed to the tone of secrecy assumed by Italians on occasions the least important, Miss Grainger followed him outside, and there, under the glare of the hall-lamp, stood Calvert, pale, his hair dishevelled, his cravat loosened, and his coat-sleeve torn. “Save me! hide me!” said he, in a low whisper. “Can you—will you save me?”
She was one not unfitted to meet a sudden change; and, although secretly shocked, she rallied quickly, and led him into a room beside the hall “I know all,” said she. “We all knew it was your name.”
“Can you conceal me here for a day—two days at furthest?”
“A week, if you need it.”
“And the servant—can he be trusted?”
“To the death. I’ll answer for him.”
“How can you keep the secret from the girls?”
“I need not; they must know everything.”
“But Florence; can she—has she forgiven me?”
“Yes, thoroughly. She scarcely knows about what she quarrelled with you. She sometimes fears that she wronged you; and Milly defends you always.”