This looked so like madness--or
hypochondria at the least--that I felt afraid to ask him about
it, and always pretended not to observe him.
The second peculiarity in his conduct was that he never referred,
while in my company, to the reports about his errand at Naples,
and never once spoke of Miss Elmslie, or of his life at Wincot
Abbey. This not only astonished me, but amazed those who had
noticed our intimacy, and who had made sure that I must be the
depositary of all his secrets. But the time was near at hand when
this mystery, and some other mysteries of which I had no
suspicion at that period, were all to be revealed.
I met him one night at a large ball, given by a Russian nobleman,
whose name I could not pronounce then, and cannot remember now. I
had wandered away from reception-room, ballroom, and cardroom, to
a small apartment at one extremity of the palace, which was half
conservatory, half boudoir, and which had been prettily
illuminated for the occasion with Chinese lanterns. Nobody was in
the room when I got there. The view over the Mediterranean,
bathed in the bright softness of Italian moonlight, was so lovely
that I remained for a long time at the window, looking out, and
listening to the dance-music which faintly reached me from the
ballroom.
Pages:
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209