He was away up the street, and she was in her own boudoir before she realised that she had tacitly granted his request.
And the feeling of annoyance with him that had been hers a few hours before was gone; in its place was one of pity for this daring young man whose essay in diplomacy had come to an untimely end.
He was of course nothing—less than nothing to her, but it would seem too unkind to refuse to see him in the morning.
She went to sleep at last, still undecided as to what she would or would not do.
But Mr. Julius Berend was troubled by no misgivings, and when he presented himself at a quarter to ten the next morning, a flicker of satisfaction tempered the pensive sadness of his gaze.
She was in the garden, and as he stepped out through the French windows towards her he thought—as he had thought on the night of his introduction to her—that for such a face as this, and such a smile, he would go to the end of the world.
And she? A grave sweetness had taken the place of her former manner to him, and she said, after giving him her hand, "Mr. Berend, I have been thinking over what you asked me, and—I think I can make it right with my father. You will promise me, of course, not to take anything out of the letter that ought to remain there?"
"I promise," he answered, quietly.
They went into the library together, and she brought him the tray of letters that were awaiting Lord Westfaling's arrival.
He drew a long envelope from his pocket, an official one, already addressed to Lord Westfaling.