. Henri, very thin, very precise,
withered like a winter apple, had fallen into a doze in the hall, where
he had sat, hoping to hear the stopping of my carriage. He rose up,
bowing and blinking, just as he had done often before, and would often
again--if life were to go on for me in the old way. He regretted not
having heard Mademoiselle. Would Mademoiselle take supper?

No, Mademoiselle would not take supper. She wanted nothing, and Henri
might go to bed.

"I thank Mademoiselle. When I have closed the house."

"But I don't want the house closed," I said. "I shall sit up for awhile.
It's hot--close and stuffy. I may like to have the windows open."

"The visitor Mademoiselle expected did not arrive. Perhaps--"

"If he comes, Marianne or I will let him in. But he may not come, now it
is so late."

When Henri had gone, I told Marianne that she might go, too. I did not
want her to wait. If the person I had expected should call, it was a
very old friend; in fact, Mr. Ivor Dundas, whom Marianne must remember
in London. He was to call--if he did call--only on a matter of business,
which would take but a few minutes to get through, and possibly he would
not even come into the house. If the gate-bell rang, I would answer it
myself, and speak with Mr. Dundas, perhaps in the garden. Then I would
let him out and come straight upstairs. Marianne might go to bed if she
wished.

"I do not wish, unless Mademoiselle particularly desires me to do so,"
said she. "I do not rest well when I have not been allowed to undress
Mademoiselle."

"Sit up, then, in your own room, and wait there for me till I ring for
you," I replied. "I shan't be late, whether Mr. Dundas comes or doesn't
come."

"Supposing the gate-bell should ring, and Mademoiselle should go, yet it
should not be the Monsieur she expects, but another person whom she
would not care to admit?"

I knew of what she was thinking, and of whom.

"There's no fear of that. No fear of any kind," I answered.

She took off my cloak, and went upstairs reluctantly, carrying my jewel
box.

I walked into the drawing-room, which was lighted and looked very bright
and charming, with its many flowers and framed photographs, and the
delightful Louis Quinze furniture, which I had so enjoyed picking up
here and there at antique shops or at private sales.

I flung myself on the sofa, but I could not rest. In a moment I was up
again, moving about, looking at the clock, comparing it with