Mr. Haywood gave the requisite information regarding Florence’s residence, and Karl Zikoff said:
“I vill present myself at t’ree o’clock.”
Mr. Haywood did not linger after his business had been transacted. It was plain from his tone and his prompt departure that he had no suspicion of Karl Zikoff’s identity.
The latter felt immeasurably relieved after he had departed, and, moreover, felt a thrill of pleasure at being called on to meet Florence Darley—she who had made such an impression on him on his call at Elm Grove two months ago. This impression had not been removed. He had carried it with him, and cherished it, and wondered if they were ever to meet again. And now came the opportunity, yet with it a pang, for he was to appear before her in a false character, and never could reveal himself unless the blight which rested upon his name were removed.
At the hour named he presented himself at Elm Grove.
“Miss Vlorence Tarley, I pelieve. Herr Zikoff, at your service.”
“You are welcome, Mr. Zikoff, and I thank you for responding to my request so promptly.”
Florence was dressed in deep black, which set off to advantage the paleness of her face and the brightness of her eyes. Her sorrow had left on her countenance a grave, thoughtful look, which enhanced rather than detracted from its fascination.
Karl Zikoff averted his eyes, which he felt might express too much of the admiration that was stirred within him, and proceeded, with an effort, to play his part.
“The honor is mine,” he said, with an obsequious bow. “And about these music-lessons—you vill study the piano-forte?”