“Am I to read it?” asked he.
“Yes, if you like. It is from Augustus Bramleigh, a person you feel some interest in.”
Pracontal took up the note, and seemed to go very carefully over its contents.
“So then,” said he, as he finished, “he thinks it better not to meet—not to know me.”
“Which is no reason on earth for being wanting in a proper attention to me,” said she, angrily. “To leave Rome without calling here, without consulting my wishes, and learning my intentions for the future, is a gross forgetfulness of proper respect.”
“I take it, the news of the trial was too much for him. Longworth said it would, and that the comments of the press would be insupportable besides.”
“But what have I to do with that, sir? Mr. Bramleigh's first duty was to come here. I should have been thought of. I was the first person this family should have remembered in their hour of difficulty.”
“There was no intentional want of respect in it, I 'll be bound,” cried Pracontal. “It was just a bashful man's dread of an awkward moment—that English terror of what you call a 'scene'—that sent him off.”
“It is generous of you, sir, to become his apologist. I only wonder—” Here she stopped and seemed confused.
“Go on, my Lady. Pray finish what you began.”