“Excellency,” said Dietrich, entering his master’s office in the Villa Alexova, and standing at the salute, “I have just seen the young Countess.”
“Nonsense, Dietrich! You must be dreaming.” Cyril knew that for some inscrutable reason of his own—probably connected with linguistic difficulties—the valet always alluded to Philippa as “the young Countess.” “Lady Phil is with her parents in England.”
“Excellency, I met her in the street just now, attended by the coachman Wright, and they both spoke to me.”
“But what did they say?”
“They expressed pleasure on seeing me, Excellency; and the young Countess said that her lady mother had been summoned from England to attend the death-bed of the Herr Oberst O’Malachy, but that on arriving here they found him alive and well.”
“What devilry is the old wretch up to now?” muttered Cyril. “He has never been seriously ill since he came here. Did you tell Lady Phil that I was at Tatarjé, Dietrich?”
“No, Excellency; I had no orders. When the young Countess asked me why I was here, I said that I was on the business of the Herr Hofminister. But in case you should wish to speak to the little lady, I informed her that persons of respectable appearance were permitted to walk in the gardens of the Villa at this hour, and I see that she is in the chestnut-alley now.”
“Your wisdom, Dietrich, is only equalled by your talent for silence. You have judged correctly: I do wish to speak to the little lady;” and Cyril rose and put away his papers, and went out into the garden. When Philippa saw him advancing towards her, she flew to meet him with a scream of delight.
“Oh, Uncle Cyril, I am so glad! How nice of Dietrich not to tell us you were here, and give us such a lovely surprise! Mother is so dreadfully worried, and father won’t be here till this afternoon, and grandpapa is such a funny man. But you’ll do next best to father. It’ll be all right now.”
“Poor Phil, what a catalogue of woes! Where is your mother?”