Lilith courtesied.
Both grew paler. Neither spoke. The strain was becoming unbearable. Besides, Hereward was stopping the way.
The princess pitied them; and then she became frightened for the result of her own coup-de-théâtre. Should Hereward “lose his head,” or Lilith faint, or should they in any other manner bring “admired disorder” into the serene repose of this patrician drawing-room? For nature, when hard pressed, does sometimes break through all the elegant little barriers of convenances and assert itself.
All this flashed through the mind of the princess in a very few seconds, and then—always equal to the occasion—she turned with perfect ease to her latest guest, and said:
“Mr. Hereward, the rooms are close, and Mrs. Wyvil is faint; will you give her the support of your arm to my boudoir? She will show you the way.”
Hereward bowed, drew his wife’s arm within his own, and led her from the salon by the shortest way indicated only by a gesture from Lilith.
They entered the elegant boudoir, with its walls of fluted white satin, and its furniture and draperies of white satin flowered with gold, and its innumerable treasures of beauty and of art; but they saw none of these things. They might have been in a West Virginia hut, for all consciousness they had of these splendors.
As soon as they entered the room—which had no other occupant—Lilith, sliding from her hold on Hereward’s arm, dropped into the nearest chair, as if no longer able to stand.
Hereward bent over her.
No word had passed between them as yet.