He made a tolerably long round, choosing always the noisiest, busiest streets, and came back to the hotel just as his cousin drove away.  He followed her carriage, and passed it as it stood at Mrs. Costello’s door, went on to the barrier, and coming back, found that it had disappeared.  Now, therefore, probably Mrs. Costello was gone, and now, if ever, was his opportunity.

When Claudine opened the door for “ce beau monsieur” she was aghast.  He was positively “beau” no longer.  He was pale and heavy-eyed.  He actually seemed to have grown thinner.  Even his frank smile and word of wonderfully English French had failed him.  She went back to her kitchen in consternation.  “Ce pauvre monsieur!  C’est affreux!  Something is wrong with him and mademoiselle.  Ma foi, if I had such a lover!”

Mrs. Costello was gone, and Lucia sat alone, and very dreary.  At Maurice’s entrance she rose quickly; but kept her eyes averted so that his paleness did not strike her as it had done others.  She coloured vividly, with a mixture of shame, pride, and gladness, at his coming; but she only said “Good morning,” in a low undemonstrative tone, and they both sat down in silence.

She had some little piece of work in her hands, but she did not go on with it, only kept twisting the thread round her fingers, and wondering what he would say; whether now that they were alone, he would refer to Percy; whether he would use his old privilege of blaming her when she did wrong.

But she was not struck down helplessly now as she had been at first yesterday.  She had begun to feel the stings of mortified pride, and was ready to turn fiercely upon anybody who should give her provocation.

Maurice spoke first.

“I came to say good-bye,” he said.  “I am obliged to go home.”

His words sounded curt and dry, just because he had such difficulty in making them steady at all, and she looked at him in her surprise, for the first time.

“Not to-day?  Is anything the matter?”

“Nothing is the matter there.  I told you I had business in Paris.  Well, it is finished.”

“And you are going to-day?”

“I start this evening.”

“We shall miss you.”

She felt a strange constraint creeping over her.  She could not even express naturally her sorrow and disappointment at his going.  She began again to have the feeling of being guilty, and accused, and being eager to defend herself without knowing how.

“I shall not be far off, and you will know where to find me.  When you want me, for whatever reason, you have only to write and I will come.”

“But I always want you,” she answered half pettishly.  “You said you would stay at least till Lady Dighton went away.”

Maurice got up and walked to the window.

“I miscalculated,” he said, coming back.  “We all do sometimes, I suppose.”

He stood in a favourite attitude, leaning with one arm on the mantelpiece, and watching Lucia with a mixture of love and bitterness.  His last words seemed to her a taunt, and tears of anger filled her eyes.  She remained silent, and he had to speak again.