“I’m—I’m very sorry,” faltered the girl, “that we didn’t go back to her at once.”
“Yes; I was to blame,” answered the humiliated hero of her Carnival dream. The clinging regret with which she kept his hand at parting scarcely consoled him for what had happened.
“I will come round in the morning,” he said. “I must know how Effie is.”
“Yes; come.”
X
Colville went to Palazzo Pinti next day with the feeling that he was defying Mrs. Bowen. Upon a review of the facts he could not find himself so very much to blame for the occurrences of the night before, and he had not been able to prove to his reason that Mrs. Bowen had resented his behaviour. She had not made a scene of any sort when he came in with Imogene; it was natural that she should excuse herself, and should wish to be with her sick child: she had done really nothing. But when a woman has done nothing she fills the soul of the man whose conscience troubles him with an instinctive apprehension. There is then no safety, his nerves tell him, except in bringing the affair, whatever it is, to an early issue—in having it out with her. Colville subdued the cowardly impulse of his own heart, which would have deceived him with the suggestion that Mrs. Bowen might be occupied with Effie, and it would be better to ask for Miss Graham. He asked for Mrs. Bowen, and she came in directly.
She smiled in the usual way, and gave her hand, as she always did; but her hand was cold, and she looked tired, though she said Effie was quite herself again, and had been asking for him. “Imogene has been telling her about your adventure last night, and making her laugh.”
If it had been Mrs. Bowen’s purpose to mystify him, she could not have done it more thoroughly than by this bold treatment of the affair. He bent a puzzled gaze upon her. “I’m glad any of you have found it amusing,” he said; “I confess that I couldn’t let myself off so lightly in regard to it.” She did not reply, and he continued: “The fact is, I don’t think I behaved very well. I abused your kindness to Miss Graham.”
“Abused my kindness to Miss Graham?”
“Yes. When you allowed her to dance at the veglione, I ought to have considered that you were stretching a point. I ought to have taken her back to you very soon, instead of tempting her to go and walk with me in the corridor.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Bowen. “So it was you who proposed it? Imogene was afraid that she had. What exemplary young people you are! The way each of you confesses and assumes all the blame would leave the severest chaperone without a word.”
Her gaiety made Colville uncomfortable. He said gravely, “What I blame myself most for is that I was not there to be of use to you when Effie—”
“Oh, you mustn’t think of that at all. Mr. Waters was most efficient. My admirer in the red mask was close at hand, and between them they got Effie out without the slightest disturbance. I fancy most people thought it was a Carnival joke. Please don’t think of that again.”
Nothing could be politer than all this.
“And you won’t allow me to punish myself for not being there to give you even a moral support?”
“Certainly not. As I told Imogene, young people will be young people; and I knew how fond you were of dancing.”
Though it pierced him, Colville could not help admiring the neatness of this thrust. “I didn’t know you were so ironical, Mrs. Bowen.”
“Ironical? Not at all.”
“Ah! I see I’m not forgiven.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
Imogene and Effie came in. The child was a little pale, and willingly let him take her on his knee, and lay her languid head on his shoulder. The girl had not aged overnight like himself and Mrs. Bowen; she looked as fresh and strong as yesterday.
“Miss Graham,” said Colville, “if a person to whom you had done a deadly wrong insisted that you hadn’t done any wrong at all, should you consider yourself forgiven?”
“It would depend upon the person,” said the girl, with innocent liveliness, recognising the extravagance in his tone.
“Yes,” he said, with an affected pensiveness, “so very much depends upon the person in such a case.”
Mrs. Bowen rose. “Excuse me a moment; I will be back directly. Don’t get up, please,” she said, and prevented him with a quick withdrawal to another room, which left upon his sense the impression of elegant grace, and a smile and sunny glance. But neither had any warmth in it.
Colville heaved an involuntary sigh. “Do you feel very much used up?” he asked Imogene.
“Not at all,” she laughed. “Do you?”
“Not in the least. My veglione hasn’t ended yet. I’m still practically at the Pergola. It’s easy to keep a thing of that sort up if you don’t sleep after you get home.”
“Didn’t you sleep? I expected to lie awake a long time thinking it over; but I dropped asleep at once. I suppose I was very tired. I didn’t even dream.”
“You must have slept hard. You’re pretty apt to dream when you’re waking.”
“How do you know?”
“Ah, I’ve noticed when you’ve been talking to me. Better not! It’s a bad habit; it gives you false views of things. I used—”
“But you mustn’t say you used! That’s forbidden now. Remember your promise!”
“My promise? What promise?”
“Oh, if you’ve forgotten already.”
“I remember. But that was last night.”
“No, no! It was for all time. Why should dreams be so very misleading? I think there’s ever so much in dreams. The most wonderful thing is the way you make people talk in dreams. It isn’t strange that you should talk yourself, but that other people should say this and that when you aren’t at all expecting what they say.”
“That’s when you’re sleeping. But when
