The entrance of a servant with breakfast hindered further conversation. They took their places, and Mrs. de Vere poured her husband’s coffee. She saw him glance inquiringly at his mother’s vacant chair, and said, carelessly:
“Mrs. de Vere sleeps late this morning.”
A thought of little Sweetheart came to both, but neither uttered it aloud. Last night they had patched up a weak fabric of peace, and both shrunk from the mention of the child’s name.
But Norman de Vere remembered that he had kept his mother awake so late last night that she was tired and weary this morning; so, without any uneasiness over her absence, he finished his breakfast and followed his wife out into the beautiful grounds. She, with the guilty consciousness upon her that as soon as he returned to the house he must find out the absence of his protégée, detained him as long as she could, winding about him anew the siren fetters in which she had bound him two years ago.
“Oh, Camille! how charming you are to-day!” he cried. “You make me almost forget last night. Oh, if only—”
He paused and sighed.
“If only what?” she asked, with a slight frown.
“If only you would be reasonable—if you would repent your absurd suspicions of me last night, and show a woman’s pity for that poor, motherless child,” he said, gently, pleadingly.
She hung down her head, and a slight smile parted her scarlet lips. He thought it was one of tender yielding; he did not dream it was of diabolical triumph.
“Camille!” he cried, eagerly.