“No,” she assented with a weary air, “except that you might ask yourself what is the good of tormenting a man of noble feelings, however absurd. His Southern blood makes him very violent sometimes. I fear—” And then for the first time during this conversation, for the first time since I left Doña Rita the day before, for the first time I laughed.
“Do you mean to hint, Madame, that Southern gentlemen are dead shots? I am aware of that—from novels.”
I spoke looking her straight in the face and I made that exquisite, aristocratic old woman positively blink by my directness. There was a faint flush on her delicate old cheeks but she didn’t move a muscle of her face. I made her a most respectful bow and went out of the studio.
CHAPTER IV
Through the great arched window of the hall I saw the hotel brougham waiting at the door. On passing the door of the front room (it was originally meant for a drawing-room but a bed for Blunt was put in there) I banged with my fist on the panel and shouted: “I am obliged to go out. Your mother’s carriage is at the door.” I didn’t think he was asleep. My view now was that he was aware beforehand of the subject of the conversation, and if so I did not wish to appear as if I had slunk away from him after the interview. But I didn’t stop—I didn’t want to see him—and before he could answer I was already half way up the stairs running noiselessly up the thick carpet which also covered the floor of the landing. Therefore opening the door of my sitting-room quickly I caught by surprise the person who was in there watching the street half concealed by the window curtain. It was a woman. A totally unexpected woman. A perfect stranger. She came away quickly to meet me. Her face was veiled and she was dressed in a dark walking costume and a very simple form of hat. She murmured: “I had an idea that Monsieur was in the house,” raising a gloved hand to lift her veil. It was Rose and she gave me a shock. I had never seen her before but with her little black silk apron and a white cap with ribbons on her head. This outdoor dress was like a disguise. I asked anxiously:
“What has happened to Madame?”
“Nothing. I have a letter,” she murmured, and I saw it appear between the fingers of her extended hand, in a very white envelope which I tore open impatiently. It consisted of a few lines only. It began abruptly:
“If you are gone to sea then I can’t forgive you for not sending the usual word at the last moment. If you are not gone why don’t you come? Why did you leave me yesterday? You leave me crying—I who haven’t cried for years and years, and you haven’t the sense to come back within the hour, within twenty hours! This conduct is idiotic”—and a sprawling signature of the four magic letters at the bottom.
While I was putting the letter in my pocket the girl said in an earnest undertone: “I don’t like to leave Madame by herself for any length of time.”
“How long have you been in my room?” I asked.