“If you’re cold, of course,” he said, letting me pass and following me, and added, with a shade of anxiety, “Why didn’t you tell me before?  I never thought of it, and you have no shawl.”

I felt ashamed of myself as I led the way up the piazza steps.

In the hall, which was quite light, they were all standing, and Mr. Langenau was in the group.  They were petitioning him for music.

“Oh, he has promised that he will sing,” said Sophie; “but remember he has not had his tea.  I have ordered it for you, Mr. Langenau; it will be ready in a moment.”

Mr. Langenau bowed and turned to go up the stairs.  His eye met mine, as I came into the light, dazzled a little by it.

He went up the stairs; the others after a few moments, went into the parlor.  I sat down on a sofa beside Mrs. Hollenbeck.  Richard was called away by a person on business.  There was a shaded lamp on a bracket above the sofa where we sat; Mrs. Hollenbeck was reading some letters she had just received, and I took up the evening paper, reading over and over an advertisement of books.  Presently the servant came to Mrs. Hollenbeck and said that Mr. Langenau’s tea was ready.  She was sent up to tell him so, and in a few moments he came down.  When he reached the hall, Sophie looked up with her most lovely smile.

“You must be famished, Mr. Langenau; pray go immediately to the dining-room.  I am sorry not to make your tea myself, but I hear Benny waking and must go to him.  Will you mind taking my place, Pauline, and pouring out tea for Mr. Langenau?”

I was bending over the paper; my face turned suddenly from red to pale.  I said something inaudible in reply, and got up and went into the dining-room, followed by the tutor.

It was several minutes before I looked at him.  The servants had not favored us with much light:  there was a branch of wax candles in the middle of the table.  Mr. Langenau’s plate was placed just at one side of the tray, at which I had seated myself.  He looked pale, even to his lips.  I began to think of the terrible walks in which he seemed to hunt himself down, and to wonder what was the motive, though I had often wondered that before.  He took the cup of tea I offered him without speaking.  Neither of us spoke for several minutes, then I said, rather irresolutely, “I am sure you tire yourself by these long walks.”

“Do you think so?  No:  they rest me.”

No doubt I felt more coquettish, and had more confidence than usual, from the successes of that evening, and from the knowledge that Richard and Kilian and Eugene Whitney, even, were so delighted to talk to me; otherwise I could never have said what I said then, by a sudden impulse, and with a half-laughing voice, “Do not go away again so long; it makes it so dull and tiresome.”

He looked at me and said, “It does not seem to me you miss me very much.”  But such a gleam of those dark, dangerous eyes!  I looked down, but my breath came quickly and my face must have shown the agitation that I felt.