He would not despair. Perhaps the time had been inopportune. Perhaps he should have postponed the crisis when he learned of Mrs. Christmas's death. Then he reflected, that he had been so intent on his own purpose as to forget to offer the most ordinary condolences.
"That is it," he said. "She is offended by my having spoken at such a time."
The Count was a shifty man, and invariably found hope in the mere fact of having something to do. There was yet opportunity to retrieve his blunder. So he drove to the office of Cayley & Hubbard, and found his meek brother sitting in his room.
"I never come to see you except when I am in trouble," said the Count, with a grim smile.
"I am always glad to see you, Frederick. What is your trouble now?"
"Oh, the old affair. She has left the theatre, as you know; she has lost that old woman; she is quite alone and penniless; and, this morning, when I offered to make her my wife, she said no."
"What were her reasons?"
"A woman never has any. But I think I vexed her in making the proposal when the corpse was lying in the next room. It was rather rum, wasn't it? And then she had been crying, and very likely did not wish to be disturbed. However, I don't despair. No. Look at her position. She can't live unless she accepts assistance from me."
"Unless——"
Mr. John Hubbard did not complete the sentence, but his face twitched more nervously than ever.