"I beg your pardon," he said, making a desperate effort to collect his thoughts. Distraught as was his air, his accent and manner were cultured and refined. Lady Munro's interest in him increased.
"Do you know where there is a statue by Gustave Doré?"
He shook his head. "I am sorry I don't," he said, and he turned away his face.
But Lady Munro did not mean the conversation to end thus. "This is a charming view, is it not?" she said.
"Ye-e-s," he said; "oh, very charming."
"I think I saw you at one of the tables in the Casino. I hope you were successful?"
He turned towards her like a stag at bay. There was anger and resentment in his face, but far more deeply written than either of these was despair. It was such a boyish face, too, so open and honest. "Don't you see I can't talk about nothings?" it seemed to say. "You are very kind and very beautiful; I am at your mercy; but why do you torture me?"
"You are in trouble," Lady Munro said, in her soft, irresistible voice. "Perhaps it is not so bad after all. Tell me about it."
A woman more accustomed to missions of mercy would have calculated better the effect of her words. In another moment the tears were raining down the lad's cheeks, and his voice was choked with sobs. Fortunately, the great terrace was almost entirely deserted. Lucy and Evelyn sat at some distance, apparently deep in the study of Baedeker, and in a far-off corner an old gentleman was reading his newspaper.
The story came rather incoherently at last, but the thread was simple enough.