“I am not defending him, though I might, especially if he were my client,” laughed Miss Winters. “I am only deploring that the world will not forgive his truths nor forget his faults in the universal power of his genius.”
It was well that the next on the programme was Beethoven’s seventh symphony, and that the men strolled in soon afterwards, for nothing is so prolific of enmities as the subject of Tolstoi, unless it be that of tariff.
The enchanting numbers were ended, and the ladies left the hall, the men taking another direction. At the foot of the stairway they were accosted by David Morning, who, after a greeting, turned and joined the baroness.
“When did you return?” said she, looking full into his bronzed face, and again at his traveling clothes.
“Only this moment. And how are you? and has the baron entirely recovered?”
“Completely, I believe, and for me, one could not be so ungrateful as to be ill in this place.”
“I trust not,” replied Morning absently.
There was silence for a moment, then, turning shortly, and looking into the handsome face of the baroness, he said, without calling her by name, but earnestly, and it may be added a little peremptorily, “I wish to have a few moments’ conversation with you after dinner, if you will be good enough to consent.”
“For what purpose? When? Alone?”
“Your first question let me answer later. Here, under the palms, on the beach, anywhere, but alone, certainly.”