“Probably,” Grey answered. “I’m sorry I was so rude.” And once more he relapsed into meditative silence.
Very bitter indeed was his self-condemnation. If he could have had a second more in which to make his decision he would have decided differently. Of that he was sure. It may have been that he took the course of wisdom, but wisdom and love have been enemies since time began, and where his allegiance was due there he had proved traitor. He contrasted his selfishness with her loyalty, and his ready willingness to conclude that she believed ill of him with her now proved steadfastness, even to the disregard of place and circumstance. He had metaphorically given her a curse for a caress, and he mentally and emotionally scourged himself for his brutality. The suggestion that desperate ills require desperate remedies—that it was necessary to be cruel that he might be kind—presented itself, but he refused to admit that it had any application. He was consumed by a desire to make reparation, to wipe out this blot of cowardice with some recklessly bold bit of bravery. He would go to her hotel—the Van Tuyls always stopped at the Ritz—and regardless of consequences he would present himself, explain all, and, in abject abasement, beseech her pardon. This, he argued, was the very least he could do. But when he reached this conclusion doubts assailed him and robbed him of what little peace he had garnered. Would she receive him? What right had he to expect that she could permit him to speak to her, now that he had repulsed her—cut her in the presence of her friends and further insulted and humiliated her by appearing more than interested in another woman—and a very young and very pretty woman, too? He most assuredly could have no just cause for complaint should she adopt such an attitude. She had indicated clearly enough that as long as only newspaper reports were his accusers she was willing to await his side of the story, but when she had given him an opportunity to defend himself, and he had chosen to ignore it and herself as well, was it in reason to hope for any further forbearance?
It was in this mood that Grey’s return from Versailles was accomplished; in this ill-temper with himself and this doubt of being able to undo what he looked on as a more dire menace to his happiness than all the charges of defalcation and embezzlement and all the dangers of extradition.
When at length he and Miss von Altdorf reached the Hôtel Grammont they found O’Hara awaiting them. He came running out to the fiacre and gave a hand to the young woman, assisting her to alight.
“Where on earth have you been?” he asked, smiling; but Grey caught a note of concern in his voice.
“To Versailles, for the day,” the Fraülein answered, gaily. “And oh, such a lovely day, too! I’ve enjoyed every minute of it.”
“Didn’t they tell you?” Grey asked. “Lindenwald knew.”
“I haven’t seen him.”
“Johann knew.”