She bent her head with a faint smile.
"Quite alone. I did not wish for a companion."
"It was not wise——" he began, and took a step door-wards. "I will call one of the servants," he added, and was going, when he remembered, and stopped, saying hoarsely:
"I forgot. They are gone. I have sent them all away!"
She looked at him in silence. He continued:
"I have paid and dismissed them. You will think it curious—you will know the reason later—I have written to you to explain."
"I found upon your table a letter addressed to me," she said. He started, knitting his black brows.
"You have not read it?" he asked, breathing quickly.
"Not yet." She touched her bosom, where the letter lay. "I have it here."
"Please do not open it! Give me back the letter!" He stretched out his hand to take it, and breathed more freely when she drew it out and gave it to him. And a sweet wild pang shot through him; the paper was so warm and fragrant from the nest where it had lain so short a time. But he mastered the emotion and tore open the envelope. He took from it the enclosure, wrapped in folds of tissue-paper, and put it in her hand, saying, as he thrust the letter in his coat-pocket: