No such delicacy of feeling influenced Kāra. In the afternoon he went to the Savoy and sent up his card.
Aneth was alone, Mrs. Everingham having just left her for a drive. The girl received the Egyptian almost with eagerness.
“Can you forgive me, Prince?” she asked, by way of greeting, as she stood before him with scarlet cheeks and downcast eyes.
“Forgive you for what, Miss Aneth?” he replied, gently.
“For—for the wrong my father did you,” she stammered.
Kāra smiled, and she glanced up shyly in time to catch his expression of amusement.
“Let us sit down and talk it over,” he said, taking her hand and leading her to a chair. “But it will be unnecessary, I am sure, for me to say that I have nothing to forgive, since you have in no way offended.”
“But my father—” she began, timidly, again dropping her eyes in shame.
“Yes, I know, Miss Aneth,” said he. “Your father did a foolish thing, for which people will justly condemn him. I am very sorry that it was through me he was detected, but I assure you I was powerless to prevent it. Others saw the marked cards and forced the accusation against him. Believe me, I would have saved him if possible; but I could not.”
“I believe you, Prince Kāra,” she said. “It was all my father’s fault, and his punishment is only such as he deserved.”