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But there was something more.
He went up-stairs.
"My dear little one," he said, in his queer French, "behold me--I come
alone. Your English friend sends a thousand apologies--he has to return
to his guests: is it an English custom to leave guests in such a manner?
Ah, Madame Potecki, there is a time in one's life when one does strange
things, is there not? When a farewell before strangers is
hateful--impossible; when you rather go away silently than come before
strangers and shake hands, and all the rest. What, wicked little one,
you look alarmed! Is it a secret, then? Does not madame guess anything?"
"I entreat you, Signor Calabressa, not to speak in riddles," said
Natalie, hastily. "See, here is a telegram from papa. He will be back in
London on Monday next week. You can stay to see him, can you not?"'
"Mademoiselle, do you not understand that I am not my own master for two
moments in succession? For this present moment I am; the next I may be
under orders. But if my freedom, my holiday, lasts--yes, I shall be glad
to see your father, and I will wait.


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