CHAPTER XLIII.
COULD any one have looked through the keyhole at Lady Bassett waiting for Reginald, he would have seen, by the very movements of her body, the terrible agitation of the mind. She rose—she sat down—she walked about with wild energy—she dropped on the sofa, and appeared to give it up as impossible; but ere long that deadly languor gave way to impatient restlessness again.
At last her quick ear heard a footstep in the corridor, accompanied by no rustle of petticoats, and yet the footstep was not Compton's.
Instantly she glanced with momentary terror toward the door.
There was a tap.
She sat down, and said, with a tone from which all agitation was instantly banished, “Come in.”
The door opened, and the swarthy Reginald, diabolically handsome, with his black snaky curls, entered the room.
She rose from her chair, and fixed her great eyes on him, as if she would read him soul and body before she ventured to speak.
“Here I am, mamma: sorry to see you look so ill.”
“Thank you, my dear,” said Lady Bassett, without relaxing for a moment that searching gaze.