Her attitude towards him had filled him with grief and dismay. From her involuntary utterances it was plain that she still loved him, yet her strange declaration that it was imperative she should marry Prince d’Auzac perplexed him to the verge of madness. He had made inquiry about this man, and on every hand heard with chagrin reports of his vast wealth, of the brilliance of his fêtes, and the charm of his personality. He was, without doubt, a prominent figure in Nice society.
To one cause alone was George able to attribute this change in the manner of his well-beloved, the fascination wealth exercises over women. When he compared his own lowly position with that of the man who had taken his place in Liane’s heart, he sighed, and was plunged into deep despair. Indeed, that very morning as he lay awake prior to his coffee being brought, he reflected whether it would not be wiser to return at once to London.
But he loved Liane. He would not yet leave her side. She loved him, too, and although this marriage might be forced upon her, yet she was nevertheless his own well-beloved.
Throughout that morning, in the hope of catching sight of Liane, he sauntered about the Promenade, sat for half-an-hour in the Posada-sur-Mer drinking vermouth, where from the open window he could watch each person who passed. But his vigilance remained unrewarded. Time after time he recollected the mysterious request of his unknown correspondent, and found himself half inclined to send a telegram and meet her. It would be an amusing adventure, if nothing else, he thought; and at length, while strolling back to the town, he resolved to do so, and, entering the nearest telegraph office, sent her a reply, asking her to call at his hotel at nine o’clock.
The afternoon he spent lonely and dull. There was, it was true, plenty of amusement going on, but in his frame of mind he was in no mood for concerts, or the mild form of gambling offered by the Casino Municipal. He sat in the public garden listening to the band until sundown, then went for a stroll through the town, dined leisurely, and went to one of the small salons in the hotel there to await his visitor.
A few minutes after nine the door was thrown open by one of the servants, behind whom stood a tall, well-dressed lady.
“M’sieur Stra-atfeeld?” she exclaimed interrogatively, with a very pronounced French accent.
“That is my name,” he answered, bowing and inviting her into the room.
The spring nights are chilly in Nice, and she was warmly clad in furs, and wore a neat toque with black veil, but even the spotted net was insufficient to conceal that an eminently handsome face was beneath.
“Your room is warm and cosy,” she exclaimed, when he had placed an armchair for her. “It is quite cold outside. May I be permitted to remove my cape?”