“Fritz,—Fritz—it isn’t my fault! It isn’t my fault!”
“Good God!” Lord Holme said slowly.
“It isn’t my fault, Fritz! It isn’t my fault!”
“Good God! but—the doctor didn’t—Oh—wait a minute—”
A door opened and shut. He was gone. Lady Holme fell down on the sofa. She was alone, but she kept on sobbing:
“It isn’t my fault, Fritz! It isn’t my fault, Fritz!”
And while she sobbed the words she knew that her life with Fritz Holme had come to an end. The chapter was closed.
From that day she had only one desire—to hide herself. The season was over. London was empty. She could travel. She resolved to disappear. Fritz had stayed on in the house, but she would not see him again, and he did not press her to. She knew why. He dreaded to look at her. She would see no one. At first there had been streams of callers, but now almost everybody had left town. Only Sir Donald came to the door each day and inquired after her health. One afternoon a note was brought to her. It was from Fritz, saying that he had been “feeling a bit chippy,” and the doctor advised him to run over to Homburg. But he wished to know what she meant to do. Would she go down to her father?—her mother, Lady St. Loo, was dead, and her father was an old man—or what? Would she come to Homburg too?
When she read those words she laughed out loud. Then she sent for the New York Herald and looked for the Homburg notes. She found Miss Pimpernel Schley’s name among the list of the newest arrivals. That evening she wrote to her husband:
“Do not bother about me. Go to Homburg. I need rest and I want to
be alone. Perhaps I may go to some quiet place in Switzerland with
my maid. I’ll let you know if I leave town. Good-bye.
“VIOLA HOLME.”