In such matters men may give sympathy, but not consolation. It is only the successful who can speak encouragement.
Roseveldt did not stay long, nor was he communicative.
Maynard did not know the object of his late-sprung passion—not even her name! He only thought it must be some rare damsel who could have caused such a transformation in his friend—a man so indifferent to the fair sex as to have often declared his determination of dying a bachelor!
The Count took his leave in a great hurry; but not before giving a hint as to the why. Maynard noticed that he was dressed with unusual care—his moustache pomaded, his hair perfumed!
He confessed to the motive for all this—he was on the way to make a call upon a lady. Furthermore, he designed asking her a question.
He did not say what; but left his old comrade under the impression that it was the proposal.
The interlude was not without suggestions of a ludicrous nature; that for a time won Maynard from his painful imaginings.
Only for a short time. They soon returned to him; and once more stooping down, he re-read Blanche Vernon’s note that had been left lying upon the table.
Just as he had finished a startling knock at the door—the well-known “ra-ta”—proclaimed the postman.
“A letter, sir,” said the lodging-house servant, soon after entering the room.