“What is this lady’s name?”
“The Contessa Dellatoria.”
“Take me to her at once.”
“And she could not master him?” muttered Pacey. “She masters me.”
He was already walking her on fast towards Portland Place, where fortune favoured the mission, for a carriage and pair passed them, driven rapidly, as they were close to the house, and Pacey told his companion that the fashionably dressed lady leaning back was the Contessa, with the effect of making Cornel hasten her pace after quitting Pacey’s arm; while, resigning himself to the inevitable, he advanced more slowly, watching the scene before him as the carriage stopped. The footman ran up and gave a thundering knock and heavy peal, with the result that the door was thrown open at once, two more servants waiting to receive their lady.
By the time the steps were rattled down, and Valentina had alighted, Cornel was at her side, pale and trembling, in her simple, plainly cut black dress, cloak, and bonnet with its thin silk veil.
“Can I speak to you, madam?” she said faintly. The Contessa turned upon her in wonder, and Cornel shrank for the moment from the beautiful, magnificently dressed woman.
“Speak to me?” she said haughtily, as her eyes swept over the American girl. Then, as she walked towards the door, “Who are you? what are you—a hospital nurse?”
“Sometimes,” said Cornel, fighting hard to be firm.
“Oh, I see: then you want a subscription for your charity. This is neither the time nor the place.” The Contessa swept on, but Cornel was at her side again before she could reach the door.