Yet not so quickly but that pretty Mrs. Hopkinson, coming,—­as Victrix always comes to Victor, to thank the great Senator, albeit the faces of her escorts were shrouded in gloom,—­saw the shawled figure disappear.

“There,” she said, pinching Wiles mischievously, “there! that’s the woman you were afraid of.  Look at her.  Look at that dress.  Ah, Heavens! look at that shawl.  Didn’t I tell you she had no style?”

“Who is she?” said Wiles sullenly.

“Carmen de Haro, of course,” said the lady vivaciously.  “What are you hurrying away so for?  You’re absolutely pulling me along.”

Mr. Wiles had just caught sight of the travel-worn face of Royal Thatcher among the crowd that thronged the stair-case.  Thatcher appeared pale and distrait:  Mr. Harlowe, his counsel, at his side, rallied him.

“No one would think you had just got a new lease of your property, and escaped a great swindle.  What’s the matter with you?  Miss De Haro passed us just now.  It was she who spoke to the Senator.  Why did you not recognize her?”

“I was thinking,” said Thatcher gloomily.

“Well, you take things coolly!  And certainly you are not very demonstrative towards the woman who saved you to-day.  For, as sure as you live, it was she who drew that speech out of the Senator.”

Thatcher did not reply, but moved away.  He had noticed Carmen de Haro, and was about to greet her with mingled pleasure and embarrassment.  But he had heard her compliment to the Senator, and this strong, preoccupied, automatic man, who only ten days before had no thought beyond his property, was now thinking more of that compliment to another than of his success; and was beginning to hate the Senator who had saved him, the lawyer who stood beside him, and even the little figure that had tripped down the steps unconscious of him.

CHAPTER XVI

AND WHO FORGOT IT

It was somewhat inconsistent with Royal Thatcher’s embarrassment and sensitiveness that he should, on leaving the Capitol, order a carriage and drive directly to the lodgings of Miss De Haro.  That on finding she was not at home, he should become again sulky and suspicious, and even be ashamed of the honest impulse that led him there, was, I suppose, manlike and natural.  He felt that he had done all the courtesy required; he had promptly answered her dispatch with his presence.  If she chose to be absent at such a moment, he had at least done his duty.  In short, there was scarcely any absurdity of the imagination which this once practical man did not permit himself to indulge in, yet always with a certain consciousness that he was allowing his feelings to run away with him,—­a fact that did not tend to make him better humored, and rather inclined him to place the responsibility of the elopement on somebody else.  If Miss De Haro had been home, &c. &c., and not going into ecstasies over speeches, &c. &c., and had attended to her business, i. e., being exactly what he had supposed her to be,—­all this would not have happened.