dressed with great splendor. The moustache he had mentioned, though but a slender thing as yet, gave him, to my eye, a formidable foreign look. He gave me no greeting.
"Where's my mother?" he cried.
My heart rose to my throat; his tone seemed to put us horribly in the wrong. "She's away—for a day," I said. "But you"—and I took his hand—"pray, where have you dropped from?"
"From New York, from shipboard, from Southampton. Is this the way my mother receives me?"
"Why, she never dreamed you were coming."
"She got no letter? I wrote from New York."
"Your letter never came. She left town yesterday, for a week."
He looked at me hard. "How comes it you're, not with her?"
"I am not needed. She has—she has—" But I faltered.
"Say it—say it!" he cried; and he stamped his foot. "She has a companion."
"Mr. Cope went with her," I said, in a still, small voice. I was ashamed of my tremor, I was outraged by his imperious manner, but the thought of worse to come unnerved me.
"Mr. Cope—ah!" he answered, with an indefinable accent. He looked about the room with a kind of hungry desire to detect some invidious difference
