"You are not a man when you break your word. Come, Guillermo!"
We are back at last before the great door; I lift a hand trembling with excitement to raise the iron knocker. The Baron stops me.
"I am von fool, Blanca! Like your countrymen, I let you rule. But vhen you forget all else off me, remembair you haf find von Peruvian who loaf you so he let you ruin hees life—you vill nefer see anodther such Peruvian madman. If I haf trouble you, I haf not spare myself, keess me gude-night, Blanca ... and good-bye."
A moment later the great knocker had fallen.
Mrs. Steele and Mrs. Baldwin are waiting for us in the star-lit patio. My friend is evidently displeased at my having gone out without consulting her. I feel with sharp self-condemnation that in agreeing to go I was not only rash, but seemed even worse; it looked as if I had courted a tête-à-tête alone at night with the Baron. Ah, why can't we see things in the present as we shall be obliged to see them when the time is past and the mistake beyond recall!
"Well, I suppose you've ordered an album full of views," says Mrs. Baldwin, pleasantly trying to cover up the awkwardness of our return.
"No," I answer, taken unawares, for by this time I have quite forgotten the object of my errand. "We found the gallery farther away than I expected, and——"
"Vhen ve get dthere it vas close," says the Baron in a calm, well-controlled voice. The carriage is announced, and we bid Mrs. Baldwin good-bye. The drive home is very quiet, and we say good-night to the Baron in the vestibule.
Mrs. Steele oddly enough asks me no questions, and I know her disapproval must be strong. I think little about that, however—I am going over and over that sharp conflict in the dim, deserted street. Did it really happen or did I dream it! This is the nineteenth century and I am a plain American girl to whom nothing remarkable ever happened before, and yet it was true! How was I to blame for it—what will the Baron do—how long will he remember? My last waking sensation is a weary surprise to find my pillow wet with tears.
Mrs. Steele rouses me the next morning, holding an open letter in her hand: