“She is there still?”
“I presume so. I have heard nothing to the contrary.”
“And alone?”
“She may be, now. Sir Norman Kingsley was with her when I left her,” said Ormiston, administering the fact with infinite relish.
There was a moment's silence. Ormiston could not see the count's face; but, judging from his own feelings, he fancied its expression must be sweet. The wild rush of the storm alone broke the silence, until the spirit again moved the count to speak.
“By what right does Sir Norman Kingsley visit her?” he inquired, in a voice betokening not the least particle of emotion.
“By the best of rights—that of her preserver, hoping soon to be her lover.”
There was an other brief silence, broken again by the count, in the same composed tone:
“Since the lady holds her levee so late, I, too, must have a word with her, when this deluge permits one to go abroad without danger of drowning.”
“It shown symptoms of clearing off, already,” said Ormiston, who, in his secret heart, thought it would be an excellent joke to bring the rivals face to face in the lady's presence; “so you will not have long to wait.”