“Then you shan’t.  I’m not going to allow it.  Catch hold of this.”

The umbrella which he thrust out at her she clutched automatically, to prevent it falling about her ears.  The veto she received with a wonderment which deepened into stupefaction when she saw him lift the huge bundle in his arms and stalk away with it down the street.  She turned a scared face at me.

“It’s washing,” she said.

Pasquale paused, looked round and motioned her onward.  She followed without a word, holding the trim silver mounted umbrella, and I mechanically brought up the rear.  It had all happened so quickly that I too was confused.  The scanty populace in the rain-filled street stared and gaped.  A shambling fellow in corduroys bawled an obscene jest.  Pasquale put down his bundle.

“Do you want to be sent to hell by lightning?” he asked, with the evil snarl of the lips.

“No,” said the man, sheering off.

“I’m glad,” remarked Pasquale, picking up the bundle.  And we resumed our progress.

Luckily a four-wheeled cab overtook us.  Pasquale stopped it, squeezed the bundle inside, and held the door open for the faltering and bewildered woman, as if she had been the authentic duchessa at Ealing.

“You were saying, Ordeyne,” he observed, as the cabman drove off with three shillings and his incoherent fare, “you were saying that your breakfast disagreed with you.”

In spite of my heaviness of heart, I laughed and loved the man.  There was something fantastically chivalrous in the action; something superb in the contempt of convention; something whimsical, adventurous, unexpected; and something divine in the wrathful pity; and something irresistible in his impudent apostrophe to myself.  It has been the one flash of comfort during this long and desolate day.

I have kept my promise to Judith.  I have lunched and dined at the club, and in the library of the club I have tried to while away the hours.  I intended this morning to make the necessary arrangements for the marriage.  After my interview with Judith I had not the heart.  I put it off till to-morrow.  I have observed the day as a day of mourning.  I have worn sackcloth and ashes.  I have done such penance as I could for the grievous fault I have committed.  Carlotta is in bed and asleep.  She went early, says Antoinette, having a bad headache.  No wonder, poor child.

A few moments ago I was tempted to peep into her room and satisfy myself that she was not ailing.  A headache is the common precursor to many maladies.  But I remembered my promise and refrained.  The cooing notes of the voice would have called me to her side, and her arms would have been around my neck and I should have forgotten Judith.

CHAPTER XVII

October 28th.

I rose late this morning.  When I went down to breakfast I found that Carlotta had already gone for her music lesson.