“Nor where she lives,” said the librarian, looking up in some surprise.
“I supposed her to be a lady that I once knew, but I did not like to speak to her in uncertainty—that is all,” said Mr. Sutherland, evasively.
The librarian was a grave man, as it befitted a custodian of grave books to be, and Mr. Sutherland’s reputation for unvarying propriety of deportment was beyond cavil, so there was no quizzing, and their talk ended there.
Mark Sutherland went down into the lobby, considering how best to introduce himself, without startling Mrs. Ashley. He might wait until she should come down, and then follow her home, ascertain her address, and call upon her the next day; but there appeared to him to be something about such a course as that he did not approve, something romantic, absurd, yet verging upon treachery. Besides, it was most probable that she would take an omnibus, when he should lose sight of her, unless, indeed, he should get into the same omnibus; to which there was the same great objection of presenting himself suddenly before her, which, after seeing the expression of her face, he dared not do; while, at the same time, it was the recollection of that very look that made him doubly anxious to meet her. After considering a while, he determined to address a letter to her through the city post-office. That would certainly reach her sooner or later.
He went home and put his purpose into execution.
He was unfit for study or for society that day. That sudden meeting with India, the revelation made by that look upon her worn but still lovely face, had stricken the rock in his bosom, and the long-sealed fountain of memory and affection was set free.
That motionless, colourless, most beautiful face—it haunted him all the day.
That afternoon he dressed to go to a dinner party, at a house on Fifth Avenue. On arriving at the place, just as he entered the hall, a lady closely veiled went out. That form and air! he could not be mistaken! Again, with a start of irrepressible pleasure, he had recognised India.
“Who is that lady?” he inquired of the “Jeemes” of that hall.
“The music mistress, yer honour,” answered “Jeemes,” who happened in this case to be “Patrick.”