The Baron's face flushed.
"Hawbury," said he, "that's good in you. We've tried one another, haven't we? You're a brick! And I don't need you to tell me what you think of me. But if you could get a word into the ear of that cantankerous old lady, and just let her know what you know about me, it might move her. You see you're after her style, and I'm not; and she can't see any thing but a man's manner, which, after all, varies in all countries. Now if you could speak a word for me, Hawbury—"
"By Jove! my dear fellow, I'd be glad to do so—I swear I would; but you don't appear to know that I won't have the chance. They're all going to leave Rome to-morrow morning."
The Baron started as though he had been shot.
"What!" he cried, hoarsely. "What's that? Leave Rome?"
"Yes."
"And to-morrow morning?"
"Yes; Miss Fay told me herself—"
"Miss Fay told you herself! By Heaven! What do they mean by that?" And the Baron sat trembling with excitement.
"Well, the holy week's over."