“None whatever, I assure you.  My sense of propriety,” he added demurely, “which might have been outraged had I been called upon to help three young ladies out of a schoolroom window at night, was deeply gratified at being able to assist them in again.”  The doorbell rang loudly, and Mr. Prince rose.  “Take your own time, and think well before you make your decision.”  But Carry’s ear and attention were given to the sound of voices in the hall.  At the same moment, the door was thrown open, and a servant announced, “Mrs. Tretherick and Mr. Robinson.”

The afternoon train had just shrieked out its usual indignant protest at stopping at Genoa at all as Mr. Jack Prince entered the outskirts of the town, and drove toward his hotel.  He was wearied and cynical.  A drive of a dozen miles through unpicturesque outlying villages, past small economic farmhouses, and hideous villas that violated his fastidious taste, had, I fear, left that gentleman in a captious state of mind.  He would have even avoided his taciturn landlord as he drove up to the door; but that functionary waylaid him on the steps.  “There’s a lady in the sittin’-room, waitin’ for ye.”  Mr. Prince hurried upstairs, and entered the room as Mrs. Starbottle flew toward him.

She had changed sadly in the last ten years.  Her figure was wasted to half its size.  The beautiful curves of her bust and shoulders were broken or inverted.  The once full, rounded arm was shrunken in its sleeve; and the golden hoops that encircled her wan wrists almost slipped from her hands as her long, scant fingers closed convulsively around Jack’s.  Her cheekbones were painted that afternoon with the hectic of fever:  somewhere in the hollows of those cheeks were buried the dimples of long ago, but their graves were forgotten.  Her lustrous eyes were still beautiful, though the orbits were deeper than before.  Her mouth was still sweet, although the lips parted more easily over the little teeth, even in breathing, and showed more of them than she was wont to do before.  The glory of her blond hair was still left:  it was finer, more silken and ethereal, yet it failed even in its plenitude to cover the hollows of the blue-veined temples.

“Clara!” said Jack reproachfully.

“Oh, forgive me, Jack!” she said, falling into a chair, but still clinging to his hand—­“forgive me, dear; but I could not wait longer.  I should have died, Jack—­died before another night.  Bear with me a little longer (it will not be long), but let me stay.  I may not see her, I know; I shall not speak to her:  but it’s so sweet to feel that I am at last near her, that I breathe the same air with my darling.  I am better already, Jack, I am indeed.  And you have seen her today?  How did she look?  What did she say?  Tell me all, everything, Jack.  Was she beautiful?  They say she is.  Has she grown?  Would you have known her again?  Will she come, Jack?  Perhaps she has been here already; perhaps”—­she had risen with tremulous excitement, and was glancing at the door—­“perhaps she is here now.  Why don’t you speak, Jack?  Tell me all.”