“My dear Mr. Morton—I feel ashamed and humiliated—I am at a loss how to apologize to you.”
John looked at him in astonishment.
“This morning,” continued the Count, “I was visited by some kind-hearted gentlemen who were so courteous as to wish to entertain me in my forced seclusion. I learned from them, for the first time, who you really are. I am distressed to think that I had offered you money as the price of your services. I knew, of course, of a Mr. Morton, one of the financial bulwarks of the Western world, but I never thought of connecting you with him. I humbly beg your forgiveness.”
“My dear Count, pray, don’t distress yourself on that account. We can devote the money to the expenses of the undertaking itself if it is needed. Let us not refer to it again, Your Excellency.” John spoke heartily and with emphasis.
“You are very good. You absolve me, Mr. Morton?”
“Absolutely, Count.”
“I am greatly relieved. Thank you.”
By the time they had arrived at the Italian littoral Morton was well posted on Roumelia and also completely in love with his tutor’s daughter. It gave him a curious pleasure to hear the father talk about his child. The Count never, for a moment, suspected that John was skillfully guiding the conversation to that subject, for he himself was an enthusiast on it. John, on the other hand, did not realize that he was playing with fire but sat opposite the old man and kept saying to himself, “You don’t know what I am thinking, old chap! I wonder what you’d say, if you did know? I am ready to fall in love with your daughter, head over heels! Just you wait— I hope you’ll like it.”
The Count’s valet had made a very excellent print of the photograph selected and this copy was now safely stowed away in Morton’s breast pocket. It remained there until he reached the privacy of his stateroom, and then he placed it in the palm of his hand and gave free vent to his excited imagination.
She did have beautiful eyes, this “little Helène!”