The family credit was at stake—so at least he assured himself—and he had a perfect right to demand an explanation. Had he reflected a little, he might have known that Alma was the last person in the world to give any explanation whatever if peremptorily demanded, or to admit her cousin’s right to demand it; her spirit was stubborn as his own, and her attitude of intellectual superiority was, he should have known by old experience, quite invincible.
Quitting the theatre, he leapt into a hansom, and was driven direct to Alma’s rooms. It was by this time about five in the afternoon, and he made certain of finding his cousin at home.
He was mistaken. Miss Craik was out, and had been out the greater part of the day.
‘Do you know where I can find her?’ he asked of the domestic, a smart servant maid.
‘I don’t know, sir,’ was the reply. ‘She went out in the morning with Mr. Bradley, and has not been home to lunch.’
‘Does she dine at home?’
‘Yes, sir—at seven.’
‘Then I will wait for her.’ And so saying he walked into the drawing-room and sat down.
He had cooled a little by this time, and before Alma made her appearance he had time to cool a good deal more. Fidgetting impatiently in his chair, he began to ask himself how he could best approach the subject on which he had come. He regretted now that he had not called for his father and brought him with him; that, no doubt, would have been the most diplomatic course to adopt. The more he thought over the information he had received, the more he questioned its authenticity; and if, after all, the actress had made a mistake, as he began to suspect and fear, what a fool he would be made to look in his cousin’s eyes! The prospect of being made to appear absurd sent a thrill of horror through his blood; for this young person, as has already been seen, dreaded, above all things in the world, the shaft of ridicule.
Time slipped by, and George Craik grew more and more uneasy. At last seven o’clock struck, and Alma had not appeared.