Moreover, what does it matter? Monsieur
would perceive it for himself!"
"Has he been here long?" asked Bernard.
"A quarter of an hour. It probably does n't seem long to the gentleman!"
"Is he alone with Mademoiselle?"
"He asked for Mademoiselle only. I introduced him into the salon, and
Mademoiselle, after conversing a little while with Madame, consented
to receive him. They have been alone together, as I have told Monsieur,
since about three o'clock. Madame is in her own apartment. The position
of Monsieur," added this discriminating woman, "certainly justifies him
in entering the salon."
Bernard was quite of this opinion, and in a moment more he had crossed
the threshold of the little drawing-room and closed the door behind him.
Angela sat there on a sofa, leaning back with her hands clasped in her
lap and her eyes fixed upon Gordon Wright, who stood squarely before
her, as if he had been making her a resolute speech. Her face wore a
look of distress, almost of alarm; she kept her place, but her eyes gave
Bernard a mute welcome. Gordon turned and looked at him slowly from head
to foot. Bernard remembered, with a good deal of vividness, the last
look his friend had given him in the Champs Elysees the day before; and
he saw with some satisfaction that this was not exactly a repetition of
that expression of cold horror.
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