“No doubt it is,” said he, falling into the artful trap, “and I felt very weak last night, I assure you. But, after all, there is no reason why I should go at once—” looking out at the enchanting sea and sky, and remembering Aimée’s last words. “A day or two can not matter, and it is nobody’s affair but my own if I choose to pay for present pleasure by future pain.”
“Oh, dear, no—not anybody’s affair at all,” said Fanny. “And then, you can so easily take another trip to Egypt and forget all about it. I really wish you would stay,” she added, persuasively. “We might have such a pleasant time wandering about Venice! And a man need not abjure the society of a woman because he thinks her too rich to marry.”
“No, certainly not,” said Lennox, though he knew in his heart that this was sophistry. “Well, at least I will not go to-day. I will stay as long as I first intended—that is, two or three days longer.”
“How nice of you!” said Fanny, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes. “And you will also stay to breakfast?”
“You are very kind, but not to-day. If you are going anywhere this afternoon, however, and will allow me to join you—”
“We are going out to the Lido. Meet us there, and we can all return together. And one word—don’t mind the incivility of the Joscelyns. They are uncivil because they are afraid of you.”
“I am very well aware of that,” said he, with a smile. Then his heart sank, and his voice also, as he added, “But if they only knew it, they have no cause for fear.”
“They are wiser than to believe that. And so am I,” thought Fanny; but she took very good care not to utter her thought aloud.