“Nonsense!  Another glass of claret won’t hurt you.  Sit down again like an Englishman.  I want half an hour’s quiet talk with you over our wine.”

“A quiet talk, Percival, with all my heart, but not now, and not over the wine.  Later in the evening, if you please—­later in the evening.”

“Civil!” said Sir Percival savagely.  “Civil behaviour, upon my soul, to a man in his own house!”

I had more than once seen him look at the Count uneasily during dinner-time, and had observed that the Count carefully abstained from looking at him in return.  This circumstance, coupled with the host’s anxiety for a little quiet talk over the wine, and the guest’s obstinate resolution not to sit down again at the table, revived in my memory the request which Sir Percival had vainly addressed to his friend earlier in the day to come out of the library and speak to him.  The Count had deferred granting that private interview, when it was first asked for in the afternoon, and had again deferred granting it, when it was a second time asked for at the dinner-table.  Whatever the coming subject of discussion between them might be, it was clearly an important subject in Sir Percival’s estimation—­and perhaps (judging from his evident reluctance to approach it) a dangerous subject as well, in the estimation of the Count.

These considerations occurred to me while we were passing from the dining-room to the drawing-room.  Sir Percival’s angry commentary on his friend’s desertion of him had not produced the slightest effect.  The Count obstinately accompanied us to the tea-table—­ waited a minute or two in the room—­went out into the hall—­and returned with the post-bag in his hands.  It was then eight o’clock—­the hour at which the letters were always despatched from Blackwater Park.

“Have you any letter for the post, Miss Halcombe?” he asked, approaching me with the bag.

I saw Madame Fosco, who was making the tea, pause, with the sugar-tongs in her hand, to listen for my answer.

“No, Count, thank you.  No letters to-day.”

He gave the bag to the servant, who was then in the room; sat down at the piano, and played the air of the lively Neapolitan street-song, “La mia Carolina,” twice over.  His wife, who was usually the most deliberate of women in all her movements, made the tea as quickly as I could have made it myself—­finished her own cup in two minutes, and quietly glided out of the room.

I rose to follow her example—­partly because I suspected her of attempting some treachery upstairs with Laura, partly because I was resolved not to remain alone in the same room with her husband.

Before I could get to the door the Count stopped me, by a request for a cup of tea.  I gave him the cup of tea, and tried a second time to get away.  He stopped me again—­this time by going back to the piano, and suddenly appealing to me on a musical question in which he declared that the honour of his country was concerned.