She drew a breath of relief. It was no one she knew, of that she felt sure. Perhaps it was no fresh trouble after all.
As if divining the presence of some one in the room, the visitor just then turned quickly, displaying handsome aquiline features, with the olive skin and dark eyes of a young man of about thirty, who threw down his hat and cane and advanced smiling.
“My dear Miss Denville—my dear Claire!” he exclaimed, speaking with a foreign accent.
Claire stood as if frozen, gazing at him in horror.
“M. Gravani!” she cried at last in a hoarse whisper.
“Say Louis,” he said eagerly, taking her hands and kissing them. “Why not? Surely my dear May told you—that she is my wife. No, no, do not be angry with me. It was wrong, I know. But you—you were always so sweet and good and kind, dear Claire!”
He kissed her hands again, and she stood as if in a dream while he went on—speaking fervidly.
“You, so tender, and who loved dear May so much. You will forgive me. We were so young—I was so poor—I dared not speak. What would the Signore Denville have said? That I was mad. May must have told you—she did tell you we were married?”
“Yes—yes,” said Claire slowly, “she told me.”
“That is well. And the old man—the good father, she told him, too!”