CHAPTER XXXIII.
PERDITA had planned to attend the opera that evening, and afterwards she meant to look in at Lord Croftus’ party, which had more or less of a political significance. Her carriage was waiting at the door, and she herself, in full raiment of festivity, was in the act of coming down stairs, with a soft silken shawl thrown round her neck and shoulders to keep out the chill, when she heard the door-bell ring sharply, and some one was admitted to the hall below. Then the sound of a voice that was familiar to her came to her ears. Hearing it, the Marquise paused on the upper landing, holding the folds of her shawl together with her left hand, and gazing expectantly downward.
“Philip, again!” she murmured. “Something must have happened. Well, let us see.”
Philip mounted the stairs slowly and heavily, with his hand on the banisters, and his head bent down. Only when he reached the landing where Perdita stood did he look up. When she saw the expression on his face, she took him by the hand without a word, and led him up to the next floor, and into her boudoir. Some wine was sparkling in a decanter on the cabinet between the windows. She poured out a glass of this, and held it to his lips. He had been glancing round the room in an apprehensive but intent way, and then into her face, as if suspecting the presence of some one or of something which did not appear. After a few moments’ pause he drank the wine, and put the glass down.
“If she is here, tell me at once,” he said.
“No one is here but ourselves. Whom do you mean?”
“No. What is it?”
“Have you seen my wife lately?”
“Lately? Three or four days ago—a week.”