She heard him come out of his bedroom, and at once dished up his bacon, and carried it into his sitting-room. She found him already reading the letter, and saw that it was giving him no pleasure. His lips were set in a thin line; there was a frown on his brow and an angry gleam in his grey eyes. She knew that of all the emotions which moved him, anger was the rarest; indeed she could only remember having once seen him angry: on the occasion on which he had smitten Mr. Montague Fitzgerald on the head when that shining moneylender was trying to force from her the key of his chambers; and she wondered what had been happening to the Esmeralda to annoy him. She was too loyal to suppose that anything that the Esmeralda had herself done could be annoying him. He ate his breakfast more slowly than usual, and with a brooding air. His eyes never once, as was their custom, rested with warm appreciation on Pollyooly's beautiful face, set in its aureole of red hair; he did not enliven his meal by talking to her about the affairs of the moment. She respected his musing, and waited on him in silence. She had cleared away the breakfast tray and was folding the table-cloth when, at last, he broke his thoughtful silence. "There's nothing for it: I must go to Buda-Pesth," he said with a resolute air. "There's nothing the matter with the Esmeralda, sir?" said Pollyooly with quick anxiety. "There's something very much the matter with the Esmeralda--a Moldo-Wallachian," said the Honourable John Ruffin with stern coldness. "Is it an illness, sir?" said Pollyooly yet more anxiously. "No; it's a nobleman," said the Honourable John Ruffin with even colder sternness. Pollyooly pondered the matter for a few seconds; then she said: "Is he--is he persecuting her, sir, like Senor Perez did when I was dancing with her in 'Titania's Awakening'?" "It ought to be a persecution; but I fear it isn't," said the Honourable John Ruffin grimly. "I gather from this letter that she is regarding his attentions, which, I am sure, consist chiefly of fulsome flattery and uncouth gifts, with positive approbation." Pollyooly pondered this information also; then she said: "Is she going to marry him, sir?" "She is not!" said the Honourable John Ruffin in a tone of the deepest conviction but rather loudly. Pollyooly looked at him and waited for further information to throw light on his manifest disturbance of spirit. He drummed a tattoo on the bare table with his fingers, frowning the while; then he said: "Constancy to the ideal, though perhaps out of place in a man, is alike woman's privilege and her duty. I should be sorry--indeed I should be deeply shocked if the Esmeralda were to fail in that duty." "Yes, sir," said Pollyooly in polite sympathy, though she had not the slightest notion what he meant.