Next day he presented himself with a mixture of feelings at Burton Street. Fate was propitious. Lady Mabel was out at a calisthenic class with her children and the governess. Elsa was alone in the boudoir, attired in a tea-gown of delicate silk, and seated near the fire with a little sick terrier of his which she had undertaken to doctor. At her lover's entrance she half looked up, then turned slowly away and devoted her attention to the dog. Percivale stood in the doorway, his hand on the lock, his fine head thrown back.
"May I come in?" he asked.
"Pray do," said a small and frigid voice.
He closed the door and came forward, his daily offering of flowers in his hand. Pausing before her—
"Are you angry with me, Elsa?" he asked, miserably.
"I thought you were angry with me," she said, in low and injured tones.
"My darling, no." He knelt down beside her. "Only I was a little disappointed to think—to think that you would not be happy alone with me——"
She shot a shy glance at him from beneath her heavy lashes.
"I do not know you very well yet," said she softly.
"Are you afraid of me, Elsa?"