his life? He was content
to feel the charm without caring to fathom it. The lovely morning light
took him in imagination to her bedside; he saw here sleeping peacefully
in her new room. Would the time come when she might dream of him?
He looked at his watch. It was seven o'clock. The breakfast-hour at
Fairfield Gardens had been fixed for eight, to give him time to catch
the morning train. Half an hour might be occupied in walking back to
his own house. Add ten minutes to make some change in his dress--and
he might set forth for his next meeting with Carmina. No uneasy
anticipation of what the family circle might think of his sudden change
of plan troubled his mind. A very different question occupied him. For
the first time in his life, he wondered what dress a woman would wear at
breakfast time.

He opened his house door with his own key. An elderly person, in a
coarse black gown, was seated on the bench in the hall. She rose,
and advanced towards him. In speechless astonishment, he confronted
Carmina's faithful companion--Teresa.

"If you please, I want to speak to you," she said, in her best English.
Ovid took her into his consulting-room. She wasted no time in apologies
or explanations. "Don't speak!" she broke out. "Carmina has had a bad
night."

"I shall be at the house in half an hour!" Ovid eagerly assured her.

The duenna shook her forefinger impatiently. "She doesn't want a doctor.
She wants a friend, when I am gone. What is her life here? A new life,
among new people. Don't speak! She's frightened and miserable. So young,
so shy, so easily startled. And I must leave her--I must! I must! My old
man is failing fast; he may die, without a creature to comfort him, if
I don't go back. I could tear my hair when I think of it. Don't speak!
It's _my_ business to speak. Ha! I know, what I know. Young doctor,
you're in love with Carmina! I've read you like a book. You're quick to
see, sudden to feel--like one of my people. _Be_ one of my people. Help
me."

She dragged a chair close to Ovid, and laid her hand suddenly and
heavily on his arm.

"It's not my fault, mind; _I_ have said nothing to disturb her. No! I've
made the best of it. I've lied to her. What do I care? I would lie like
Judas Iscariot himself to spare Carmina a moment's pain. It's such a
new life for her--try to see it for yourself--such a new life. You and I
shook hands yesterday. Do it again. Are you surprised to see me? I asked
your mother's se