The clock in the salon struck. She started, and went to straighten her veil at the glass. What would the afternoon bring her? Something it should bring her. The Nemi days of the winter were shrined in memory—each with its halo. Let her put out her full strength again, and now, before it was too late—before he had slipped too far away from her.
The poor heart beat hotly against the lace of her dress. What did she intend or hope for? She only knew that this might be one of her last chances with him—that the days were running out—and the moment of separation approached. Her whole nature was athirst, desperately athirst for she knew not what. Yet something told her that among these ups and downs of daily temper and fortune there lay strewn for her the last chances of her life.
* * * * *
'Please, ma'am, will you go in for a moment to Miss Manisty?'
The voice was Benson's, who had waylaid Mrs. Burgoyne in the salon.
Eleanor obeyed.
From the shadows of her dark room Aunt Pattie raised a wan face.
'Eleanor!—what do you think?'—
Eleanor ran to her. Miss Manisty handed her a telegram which read as follows—
'Your letter arrived too late to alter arrangements. Coming to-morrow—two or three nights—discuss plans.—ALICE.'