“And you will give him his congé?”
“Yes; he shall come here no more. I shall not let him know that you have told me that poor girl’s story. He might want to fight a duel with you, if he knew what you have said of him.”
“I don’t think he would, Lisa; but it is wiser to tell him nothing. You can say you have been told you are compromising yourself by receiving his visits.”
“Little Zinco does not love him,” said Lisa; “he will be pleased to see him dismissed. He says I should have no friend but him and my piano.”
“Zinco is a worthy soul.”
“Is he not? He pretends to be very proud of my success. For the first year of my engagement at the Apollo I used to give him a quarter of my salary; but now I only pay him for my lessons. He goes on teaching me grand opera. It broadens and refines my style, he tells me—but Mr. Hawberk implores me never to leave off being vulgar. It would be my ruin, he says.”
“Be yourself. Lisa—bright, candid, and original. Your transparent nature will always pass for genius, from its rarity. And now good-bye. I must not come here any more. I came to-day because I felt I had a duty to do as your friend, but my wife would not like to hear of me as your visitor. She and I love each other too well not to be easily jealous.”
“It has been sweet to see you,” answered Lisa, gravely, “but I will not ask you to come again. Yes, yes,” she added musingly. “I understand! Love is always jealous.”
She gave him her hand, and bade him good-bye, with a gentle resignation which touched him more deeply than her passionate moods had ever done. The beautiful dark eyes looked into his, and said, “I love you still—shall love you always,” in language which a man need not be a coxcomb to understand. And so they parted, each believing that this might be a final parting.
Vansittart looked at his watch as he ran downstairs. It was nearly six o’clock. At the bottom of the last flight he met Sefton, who was entering with an easy air and self-satisfied smile, which changed to a frown as he recognized Lisa’s departing visitor.