He came in with quiet footsteps, and the first thing he did was to--lock the door. The action may have been intended as a quiet reproof to Miss Minny: if so, it is a pity she was not there to profit by it. "Have they asked for me in the salon?" began the governess. "Not they," replied Herbert. "They are too much occupied with their own concerns." "Herbert, why were you not here on Saturday night?" she asked. "On Saturday night? Oh--I remember. I had to go out to keep an engagement." "You might have spoken to me first, then," she answered resentfully. "Just one little word. I did come up here, and I waited--I waited! After the tea I came up, and I waited again. Ah! quelle patience!" "Waited to give me my Italian lesson?" Herbert Dare spoke in a voice of laughing raillery. The Italian girl did not seem inclined to laugh. She stood on one side the fire, and its blaze--it was the only light in the room--flickered on her compressed lips. More compressed than ever were they to-night. "Now, what's the use of turning cross, Bianca?" continued Herbert, still laughing. "You are as exacting as if I paid you a guinea a lesson, and went upon a system of 'no lesson, no pay.' If----" "Bah!" interrupted mademoiselle angrily: and it certainly was not respectful of Herbert, as pupil, to call her by her Christian name--if it was that which angered her. "I am getting nearly tired of it all." "Tired of me! You might have a worse pupil----" "Will you be quiet, then!" cried she, stamping her foot. "I am not inclined for folly to-night. You shall not say again you are coming here, if you don't come, mind, as you did on Saturday night." "Well, I had an engagement, and I went straight off from the dinner-table to keep it," answered Herbert, becoming serious. "Upon my word of honour it was not my fault, Bianca; it was a business engagement. I had not time to come here before I went." "Then you might have come when you returned," she said. "Scarcely," replied he. "I was not home till two in the morning." Bianca Varsini lifted her strange eyes to his. "Why tell me that?" she asked, her voice changing to one of mournful complaint. "I know you went out from dinner--I watched you out; and I saw you when you went out again. It was past ten. I saw you with my own eyes." "You must have good eyes, Bianca. I went out from the dinner-table----" "Not then--not then; I speak not of then," she vehemently interrupted. "You might have come here before you went out the second time." "I declare I don't know what you mean," he said, staring at her. "I did not come in until two in the morning. It was past two." "But I saw you," she persisted. "It was moonlight, and I saw you cross the lawn from the dining-room window, and go out. I was at this window, and I watched you go in the direction of the gate. It was long past ten." "Bianca, you were dreaming! I was not near the house." Again she stamped her foot. "_Why_ you deceive me? Would I say I saw you if I did not?"