Chapter Thirteen.
A Promise.
Just as the ladies had left the dining-room, a note was put into Colonel Estcourt’s hand.
He opened it and read the two brief lines it contained. “I will see you in my boudoir when you have finished dinner.”
He pushed aside the glass he had just filled and left the table at once.
He knocked at the door of her room, and the low, sweet voice that bade him enter, thrilled his heart with its accustomed sorcery. He opened the door, but as he stepped across the threshold, he suddenly paused, and for a moment it seemed to him that his heart ceased to beat. Was it only chance that reproduced the dream-scene of the previous night, for the suite of rooms were thrown open, and through the delicate amber tints of the satin hangings gleamed the faint rose-hue of lamplight, paling into opal in the farthest chamber but giving to all the soft and glowing colouring he remembered so well. Swiftly as his eyes took in the picture, they seemed also to take in the lovely figure reclining among soft snowy furs, robed in colourless silk bordered with the same fur.
She raised herself on her arm as he approached. “I have not treated you well to-day, Julian,” she said. “But I have been ill—nervous—disturbed. I slept badly, and had terrible dreams. You must forgive me.”
He bent over the extended hand and touched it with his lips.
“You are cold,” she said. “What is the matter?”