What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington? The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign. "Ruth!" She had gone to the door, aimlessly, without purpose. She spoke readily enough, but there was a new timidity in her manner. Impassive by nature and training, he was conscious to-night of a strange sense of excitement, of exhilaration tempered by a dull background of disappointment. "On my return, I found the window open, and the room vacant. She could see over a waist high stone wall into the miniature courtyard, complete with benches only a small child could sit upon, one which had been broken in half, its two pieces left unjoined on the sandy ground. His eyes were red. The theme was a masquerade. Nice, of course. Never! And they don’t know it! They have no idea of it. He might have supposed the fellow would be eager to be rid of the tale, for that he might have longer to enjoy the amenities of the Triumphal Chariot where the meeting had been appointed. She’ll tell everyone soon, if only to gain herself some attention!” He cried under his breath. Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua. “The visit seems to have made a most painful impression upon him. “He fancied that he did,” she corrected him coolly.
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