She laughed at him.

"Bourgeois."

"Maybe. I believe my ancestors were shopkeepers."

"And the little cousin?" she said, looking at him sideways.

"She is the dearest little girl in the world," he answered, heartily.

"I am not sure that I approve of her, though," the Countess said gaily,
"not, at any rate, if it has been she who has kept you away from me all
this time."

There was a more personal note in her conversation, the touch of her
fingers upon his arm was warm and firm. Thinking of these things,
Douglas did not hear the rustle of a skirt behind him as they stepped
out upon the pavement. The Countess saw it and kept him talking there
lightly for a moment. When at last she let him go, and he ran upstairs,
he nearly dropped the lamp he was carrying in surprise. For his little
room was empty. Cicely was gone.



CHAPTER XXV

A TRAGIC INTERRUPTION

"So you see, my friend Douglas, we must dine alone. Try to look as