Morton could not help admiring the fine poise and keen mind of this remarkable young woman—seemingly a child in years, but a woman in sense. “You and your father should come to my country, Miss Rosen. Your father’s talents would be recognized there, and you also, with your wit and beauty. In my country, your people are powerful and honored. Persuade your father, won’t you? If he needs help I will help him.”
“Thank you, Herr Morton; but I hear some one coming. It is Miss Helène.”
Rachel bounded up and was through the door in a flash. In that moment, however, he realized whom he was to meet. He stood up, his heart beating, and waited. He had not to wait long, for the curtain was pushed aside and the lovely face of the photograph was framed in the doorway.
The clear, mellowed light which filtered through the lace curtains of the windows fell full on the sweet countenance and revealed the slender figure as it stood against the velvet background of the portières. Miss Rosen had thought it best not to come in with her.
The door behind the curtains closed with a gentle click. She came toward the center of the room and leaned one hand against the table whilst the other timidly rested upon her bosom, which was rising and falling in her agitation.
Morton’s gaze was riveted on her. He saw as in a vision the pale face of soft contour, the delicate nose with quivering nostrils above slightly parted tremulous lips—moist as with the dew of innocent childhood, the eyes encircled by dark shadows—blue eyes, the blue of the wood-violet. She was more beautiful than his dreams. She was looking at him with a pitiful, questioning look, which went to his heart and roused him from his state of trance. All his manhood rose up in him in response to the appeal, and bowing deeply, he said:
“I am Mr. John Morton, Comtesse, a friend of your dear father. I am the bearer of a letter from him to you.” He held the package towards her. “I am here to be of service, if I can, to you and the Princess.”
With her hand still upon her bosom, she whispered rather than spoke:
“Miss Rosen has told me you have letters from my father—pray forgive me—I have been walking fast and am a little out of breath——”
She took the letter in a delicate, white hand and saw that its envelope was unaddressed. It was sealed, but in the corner she noted her father’s mark.