"My friend, consider her," he whispers, in a firm but soft voice. Then, after a moment's pause, "Come with me," he says, and, leading the way, beckons to Luttrell, who rises mechanically and follows him.
Into a small private apartment that opens off the hall the Italian takes him, and, pushing toward him a chair, sinks into another himself.
"She is the woman you love?" he asks, presently, in such a kindly tone as carries away all suspicion of impertinence.
"Yes," answers Luttrell, simply.
"Well, and I love her too,—as a pupil,—a beloved pupil," says the elder man, with a smile, removing his spectacles. "My name is Marigny."
Tedcastle bows involuntarily to the great teacher and master of music.
"How often she has spoken of you!" he says warmly, feeling already a friendship for this gentle preceptor.
"Yes, yes; mine was the happiness to give to the world this glorious voice," he says, enthusiastically. "And what a gift it is! Rare,—wonderful. But you, sir,—you are engaged to her?"
"We were—we are engaged," says Luttrell, his eyes dark with emotion. "But it is months since we have met. I came to London to seek her; but did not dream that here—here—— Misfortune has separated us; but if I lived for a hundred years I should never cease—to——"
He stops, and, getting up abruptly, paces the room in silent impatience.