“Whom shall I mention to mademoiselle?” inquired the French lady’s-maid.
“Her mother,” was the response.
Rosalie withdrew; and Mrs. Fitzhardinge, seating herself upon an elegant ottoman, cast her eyes around the splendid room.
“Perdita is well lodged, at all events,” she mused inwardly. “But somehow or another, there is a mystery which I cannot comprehend. The porter spoke of no gentleman—the maid was equally silent on that head, and alluded to her mistress as mademoiselle[12] and not as madame. What can it mean?”
At this moment the door opened, and Perdita made her appearance in a charming déshabillée; for she had been assisting to arrange her effects in her newly-hired ready-furnished apartments.
The meeting between the mother and daughter was characterised by nothing cordial—much less affectionate: there was no embracing—not even a shaking of the hand, but only a mutual desire, hastily evinced on either side, to receive explanations.
“Where is Charles?” demanded Mrs. Fitzhardinge.
“Gone,” was the laconic reply.
“Gone!” ejaculated the old woman, now manifesting the most profound astonishment.
“Yes; gone—departed—never to return,” said Perdita, with some degree of bitterness: then, in an altered tone, and with recovered calmness, she asked, “But how have you managed respecting the accusation——”