Cynthia meditated a little. She did not want to tell Madame della Scala, who was a confirmed chatterer, that she thought of going to America; and yet, knowing that her departure would probably be sudden and secret, she did not want to omit the opportunity of saying a few necessary words. "If I took any steps of which you did not approve, dear Madame, I hope that you would forgive me and believe that I was truly grateful to you for all your kindness to me." "What does that mean?" said Madame shrewdly. "Are you going to be married, _cara mia_? Is an elopement in store for us? _Dio mio_, there will be a fine fuss about it in the newspapers if you do anything extraordinary! You are becoming the fashion, my dear, as they say in England; and, when you are the fashion, your success is assured." "I am not going to do anything extraordinary," said Cynthia, forcing a smile, "and I do not mean to elope with anybody, dear Madame; I only wanted to thank you for all that you have done for me. And now I must practise for the evening. Perhaps music will do my headache good." But, even if music benefited her head, it did not raise her spirits. Each time that the postman's knock vibrated through the house, her heart beat so violently that she was obliged to pause in her singing until she had ascertained that no letter had come for her. No letter--no message from either Hubert or her father--what did this silence mean? The day wore on drearily. She would not go out, much to Madame's vexation; she practised, she tried to read, she looked at her dresses--she tried all the usual feminine arts for passing time, going so far even as to take up some needlework, which she generally detested; but, in spite of all, the day was cruelly long and blank. She dined early in the afternoon, as she was going to sing that evening; and it was about seven o'clock that she resolved to go and dress for the party to which she was bound, saying to herself that all hope was over for that day--that she was not likely to hear from Hubert Lepel that night. Just as she was going up-stairs a knock came to the door. She lingered on the landing, wondering whether any visitor had come for her; and it was with a great leap of the heart that she heard her own name mentioned, and saw the maid running up the stairs to overtake her before she reached her room. "It's Jenkins--Mr. Lepel's man, miss," said Mary breathlessly; "and he wants to know if he can speak to you for a moment."