John moved to her side, and for him, too, the joy of those few moments was clouded. A little shiver of presentiment took its place. He recognized the footman whom he saw standing upon the pavement.
"It is the Prince of Seyre," Louise faltered.
"Must you see him?" John muttered.
"Yes!"
"Send him away," John begged. "We haven't finished yet. I won't say anything more to upset you. What I want now is some practical guidance."
"I cannot send him away!"
John glanced toward her and hated himself for his fierce jealousy. She was looking very white and very pathetic. The light had gone from her eyes. He felt suddenly dominant, and, with that feeling, there came all the generosity of the conqueror.
"Good-by!" he said. "Perhaps I can see you some time to-morrow."
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers, one by one. Then he left the room. She listened to his footsteps descending the stairs, firm, resolute, deliberate. They paused, there was a sound of voices—the prince and he were exchanging greetings; then she heard other footsteps ascending, lighter, smoother, yet just as deliberate.
Her face grew paler as she listened. There was something which sounded to her almost like the beating of fate in the slow, inevitable approach of this unseen visitor.