For the life of him he could not tell whether she was pleased or disappointed. She had turned her shoulder to him. She was looking steadily out of the window, and he could not see her face.
“Why are you curious about him?” she asked.
“I wish I knew. I think only because he came from Lenox.”
She turned her face slowly round towards him. He was astonished to see the dark rings under her eyes, the weariness of her smile.
“The Duke of Souspennier,” she said slowly, “is an old and a dear friend of mine. When you tell me that he is in London I am anxious because there are many here who are not his friends—who have no cause to love him.”
“I was wrong then,” he said, “not to give him your address.”
“You were right,” she answered. “I am anxious that he should not know it. You will remember this?” He rose and bowed over her hand.
“This has been a selfish interlude,” he said. “I have destroyed your rest, and I almost fear that I have also disturbed your peace of mind. Let me take my leave and pray that you may recover both.”
She shook her head.
“Do not leave me,” she said. “I am low-spirited. You shall stay and cheer me.”