Pamela’s footsteps and Pamela’s voice in the corridor startled her in the midst of those dark thoughts. She hurriedly withdrew to her own room, where the maid Louisa was sitting, intent upon one of those infinitesimal repairs which served as an excuse for her existence.
“Go and tell Miss Ransome that I cannot dine with her. My headache is worse than it was when she went out. Ask her to excuse me.”
Louisa obeyed, and Mildred locked the door upon her grief. She sat all through the long evening brooding over the past and the future, impatient to know the worst.
She was on her way to Genoa with Pamela and their attendants before the following noon. Albrecht, the courier, had scarcely time to claim the promised coin from Mr. Castellani.
Miss Ransome repined at this sudden departure.
“Just as we were going to be engaged,” she sobbed, when she and Mildred were alone in a railway compartment. “It is really unkind of you to whisk one off in such a way, aunt.”
“My dear Pamela, you have had a lucky escape; and I hope you will never mention Mr. Castellani’s name again. He is an utterly bad man.”
“How cruel to say such a thing!—behind his back, too! What has he done that is bad, I should like to know?”
“I cannot enter into details; but I can tell you one thing, Pamela: he has never had any idea of asking you to be his wife. He told me that in the plainest language.”
“Do you mean to say that you questioned him about his feelings—for me?”