Lucretia stood silent, half-smiling, half-angry, as if to say, tarry until a more fitting opportunity—wait until we are alone my sweet Placidia, and I will amply revenge myself for these unreserved communications.
“I must acknowledge, Placidia,” I replied, “the kindness of your interposition. But the inquiry of Lucretia has been fully answered by the unfortunate Longinus, a copy of whose immortal works I have now in my possessions, and it would be a source of pleasure to study them with you.”
“We embrace the proposition with delight,” she answered, but then, as if fearing she had been too eager, she replied, “but Mobilius must be of the number.”
“Placidia,” said Lucretia, “do you know then that Septimus and all his friends are alarmed at the absence of Mobilius: he has not been seen since he left us last night?” This was uttered in a tone which led me to believe her previous gaiety was but assumed.
“Is it possible?” replied Placidia with emotion.
“I must go and assist my friends in their search,” I replied.
“But you are not acquainted with the streets of Heliopolis, and what service could you render?”—
“Friendship, Placidia—” but she interrupted me as if in anticipation of what I was about to say.
“Go—hasten,” at the same time whispering in my ear as she turned, and deeply blushing, “let me see you on your return—I have something to confide to you which hangs heavily upon my spirits.”
“I see how it is,” and the fire of jealousy shot through my veins, “she loves Mobilius;” but such ungenerous thoughts were soon driven from my mind, when I remembered the uncertainty of the fate of my friend. At this moment I heard the name of Septimus cried aloud.