"Mind? Mind? Why should I mind?"
Had her denial been a shade less intense, its steadiness might have deceived her companion; as it was, the faintest flickering smile touched her lips, as she also rose and came slowly forward.
"My dear child!" she murmured reproachfully—"my dear child, you have misunderstood. I never implied that Walter interested you personally; I merely used him as an illustration—as a means of conveying the folly of taking serious people seriously. But you are tired. I have been cruelly unreasonable. I shall send you straight to bed. You are fagged after that long journey."
She put out her hand and laid it on Clodagh's arm; but Clodagh was not in a mood to be caressed.
"It's all right!" she said abruptly. "I suppose we both misunderstood. I am a little tired. I think I will say good-night!"
"Good-night, dear child!" Lady Frances pressed her hand, and walked with her slowly across the room. As she passed out into the corridor, she waved a gay farewell. "Sleep well!" she called. "But dream of an English February—and wake with a changed mind!"
As she said the last words, Clodagh paused for a moment; then went on again without speaking, and entered her own room.
Tired though she was, she scarcely slept that night; and in the early hours of the morning she saw the bright dawn break over Paris. At eight o'clock she rang for Simonetta, and asked for ink, pen, and note-paper.
Sitting up in bed, she wrote the following note.
"Dear Lady Frances,