Art had apparently humiliated itself too long in the presence of Beauty.
"Let us part friends," said Daphne.
But he turned from the little hand offered to him in friendship. Magnanimity did not form part of his character.
"Will you not come and see us to-morrow?" said Daphne, affecting not to notice the repulse.
"I leave Rivoli to-day—this hour. You will see me no more."
"Will you not say good-bye to my father and Frank?"
A scornful gesture of refusal was his only reply, and, with a dark glance, he was preparing to depart when a motion from Daphne stopped him.
"Angelo," she said in a plaintive, supplicating voice, and using the Christian name of the artist—she was loth to ask the question of him, and yet felt that she must—"Angelo, answer me truly. If you know anything of Captain Willard—and your words just now seemed to imply that you do—tell me, I implore you, and I will be—your—your best friend," she added, as if sorry she could not offer him the highest place in her regard. "Do you know where he is?"
"Do I know where he is?" repeated the Italian with a peculiar laugh. He turned back, took a step nearer to Daphne, and said: