Two days afterwards, Caspar Goodwood knocked at the door of the house in Wimpole Street in which Henrietta Stackpole occupied furnished lodgings. He had hardly removed his hand from the knocker when the door was opened, and Miss Stackpole herself stood before him. She had on her bonnet and jacket; she was on the point of going out.
"Oh, good morning," he said, "I was in hope I should find Mrs. Osmond."
Henrietta kept him waiting a moment for her reply; but there was a good deal of expression about Miss Stackpole even when she was silent.
"Pray what led you to suppose she was here?"
"I went down to Gardencourt this morning, and the servant told me she had come to London. He believed she was to come to you."
Again Miss Stackpole held him—with an intention of perfect kindness—in suspense.
"She came here yesterday, and spent the night. But this morning she started for Rome."
Caspar Goodwood was not looking at her; his eyes were fastened on the doorstep.
"Oh, she started—" he stammered. And without finishing his phrase, or looking up, he turned away.
Henrietta had come out, closing the door behind her, and now she put out her hand and grasped his arm.
"Look here, Mr. Goodwood," she said; "just you wait!"
On which he looked up at her.
THE END.
CLAY AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS, BUNGAY.
