He was waiting in the handsome private parlor belonging to Lord Ivon's elegant suite of rooms at Willard's Hotel, and when she came gliding in, softly as a spirit in her long gown of rich black velvet, he came eagerly to meet her, exclaiming:
"My darling, I am glad you are well enough to come out again, for I have missed you very much."
"Thank you, Lord Clive," she said, in a constrained voice; and evading the arms outstretched to embrace her, she sunk wearily into a chair.
He followed, and sat down by her side.
"Oh, you have been ill—you are pale and wan indeed, Azalia. I see now that I did you an injustice, for I half believed, like Lady Ivon, that it was a fit of ennui or the dismals."
The blue eyes turned eagerly to his face, and he could see that she was trembling very much.
"Poor child!" he said, compassionately, attempting to press her hand; but she drew it quickly away, and exclaimed:
"You were right, Lord Clive. It was not that I was sick, only dismal and wretched. Yes, I will tell you the truth now. I was not ill, only frightened—of you!"
The low voice faltered, and she stole a pleading glance at him that mystified him even more than her words.