While the small object of his displeasure watched the door with longing eyes, yearning to escape from the oppressive dignity of his presence, she felt herself growing crimson under his cold, proud gaze.
"You have not asked me yet if I saw your parents," he said, after some minutes of that oppressive silence.
"It is coming now," thought the small culprit in despair, and she felt guiltily that the color was all fading out of her cheeks under those watchful eyes. She could only stammer, faintly, "Did you?"
To her infinite joy and relief, he answered in the negative.
"No, I did not see them. I called twice, but at both times they were out—once driving in the park, and again attending a reception."
"You do not look sorry, Miss Gordon, although it was purely out of courtesy to you that I went there."
"Indeed, I am very sorry," she murmured, but she could not make her face look so.
His words were so great a relief to her that she could not look disappointed. He did not tell her how disappointed he was. He would not have owned to himself that he had hoped to hear something about that lover from whom they had separated her. He would even have liked to have seen him. It was a new thing for the blasé, world-weary St. Leon Le Roy to feel curious over anything; but he had a great deal of curiosity over the man whom Beatrix Gordon loved.
"I should like to know if he is worthy of her," was his excuse to his own heart.
But he had not seen the Gordons, and he had found out nothing about their daughter's lover.