‘What is the matter, Madeline?’
Madeline’s face, which had lately been so pale, suddenly became crimson.
She stammered out that nothing was the matter.
‘Mr. Serena told me that you had been ill.’
‘I did not feel well,’ returned Madeline, regaining some of her self-command, ‘and I should like to go home—but, dear Miss Forster, if you will permit me I will go alone. It seems a pity to take you away so soon.’
The lady replied, coldly—
‘I have no wish to stay. I came because my brother wished me to come; that was all.’
By this time Serena, who had been busy hurrying up the carriage, came to announce that it was ready, to offer his arm to the ladies, and once more to express his deep grief at Madeline’s untimely departure. Madeline took his arm in silence. As she moved away, she turned and gazed uneasily around her.
The Frenchman was nowhere to be seen.
The drive home was made in profound silence. Miss Forster sat in stately reticence and gazed from the carriage window at the flashing lamps of the street, while Madeline threw herself into her corner, closed her weary eyes, and tried to persuade herself that the event of the last hour had been but a dream. She was a little bewildered as yet, and unable to realise all that the man’s presence might mean. To her as yet he had only recalled the horror of her past-life; he had cast no actual shadow over her home.