The words came from Nadia, who, having tried for some time to arouse Wilfrid by knocking at his bedroom door, had at last succeeded.
“Past ten o’clock!” echoed Wilfrid, realising what these words meant. “Then the Prin—I mean the boyarine and her party have gone?”
“Half an hour ago.”
It was with considerable mortification that Wilfrid heard this news. It had been his intention to secrete himself at some loophole of observation in order to watch the departure of the Princess and her train. Prolonged slumber, however, had debarred him from this pleasure.
On coming down to breakfast his mortification soon yielded to a new feeling, namely, curiosity as to whether Nadia was aware of the blunder she had made. Had she discovered her error shortly afterwards, but, overcome with confusion and fear, had left him to extricate himself from the difficulty as he best might?
If she were not aware of her mistake it would be better to let her continue in ignorance of it—so much the safer would be the Princess’s secret. But in what way was he to question Nadia without revealing what he wanted to hide? A lawyer might be equal to the task, but Wilfrid wasn’t a lawyer, for he was too impulsive in speech, which is a fault, and too transparent in motive, which is a virtue.
As he sat down to breakfast he eyed Nadia keenly, who coloured on observing his gaze as any maiden might, whose last parting from a man had been marked by a kiss, so that her sudden blush told him nothing of what he wished to know. She was the sole attendant at table, her father at that moment being engaged in superintending the delivery of a wagon-load of fagots.
“The gospodin slept well?” she asked.
“Excellently. Five minutes after leaving you,” said Wilfrid, fixing his eyes intently upon her face, “five minutes after leaving you I was fast asleep.”
If she had been among the little gathering outside the Princess’s bedroom she must have known that he was not keeping to the truth. If she knew it she did not betray her knowledge by any change in her manner.