Again the door opened. The man who entered was Charles Armytage.
For a few moments he held her in fond embrace, kissing her lips tenderly again and again; while she, in that soft, crooning voice that had rung in his ears through all those months of separation, welcomed him, reiterating her declarations of love.
“I received your telegram in Brussels two days ago, and have come to you direct,” he said at last. “I did not go to the Post Office every day, hence the delay.”
“Ah! my poor Nino must be tired,” she cried, suddenly recollecting. “Here, this couch. Sit here; it will rest you. Povero Nino! What a terrible journey—from Brussels to Florence!”
He sank upon the divan she indicated, pale, weary, and travel-worn, while she, taking a seat beside him, narrated how she had left Lyddington for London, and afterwards travelled to Rome. Feeling that the glance of the woman he worshipped was fixed upon him, he raised his head; and then their eyes met for a moment with an expression of infinite gentleness, the mournful gentleness of their heroic love.
“Why did you go to Rome?” he asked. “You always said you hated it.”
“I had business,” she answered. “Urgent business; business which has again aroused hope within me.”
“Still of a secret nature?” the young Englishman hazarded, with a quick glance of suspicion.
“For the present, yes,” she replied in a low, intense voice. “But you still love me, Nino? You can trust me now, can’t you?” and she looked earnestly into his face.
“I have already trusted you,” he replied. “Since that night I left you at Lyddington my life has indeed been a dull, aimless one. You have been ever in my mind, and I have wondered daily, hourly, what was the nature of the grave mysterious peril which you say threatens both of us.”