"Am I the first one here?" he asked.
The footman smiled and replied in the affirmative as he opened the drawing-room door for the guest.
Entering, he came upon Betty, who seemed busy with something about the room.
"Am I too early, Miss Betty?" he asked.
The maid courtesied and smiled. "The baroness has not come in yet, but she will soon be at home. The young lady is in the music-room."
At this moment, indeed, he heard some one singing in the next room, but the voice sounded fuller and richer than Alfonsine's. He concluded, however, that it was with her as with so many others, who sing their best when alone.
He passed into the music-room, but halted suddenly in surprise. At the piano sat, not Alfonsine, but another young lady whom at first he failed to recognise. It was Edith, in a new gown and with her hair arranged as he had never seen it before. She wore a low-necked pink dress which exposed to view her beautiful neck and shoulders, and she was singing a ballad, in an untrained voice, but with expression and feeling, picking out the air on the piano with one hand like a person unskilled in playing. She was quite alone in the room.
Richard feasted his eyes on the little white hand dancing over the keyboard, until Edith, glancing up from her music, caught sight of him. Her first impulse was to cover her bare neck with both hands, so new and strange did her costume still seem to her. But recognising that this was exactly the wrong thing to do, she let her hands fall and advanced to meet the young officer. Her face flushed a rosy red and her heart beat violently as, in a voice that nearly failed her, she announced that the baroness was not at home.
Richard pitied her embarrassment. "And Miss Alfonsine?" he asked.
"They both went out together," she replied. "They were called to court and will not return until late."