CHAPTER XXXI PRETENDED CONSOLATION “In the evening Anglesea called on me again. “His manner was full of the most respectful sympathy. He was my brother’s dearest friend. He had acted in my father’s and my brother’s absence as my own best friend; and, since he could not prevent my romantic escapade, he had attended me in the character of a guardian, to see that no fatal mistake was made through Saviola’s ignorance of national laws and customs. Therefore, I had every reason to trust in him and confide in him as in an elder brother. “I was alone, in the little drawing room, when he entered. I received him as warmly, though more gravely, than when he had called at noon. “When we were seated I asked him—as I would have asked my brother—whether my husband had really, finally abandoned me. He looked searchingly into my face, as if to see how I would be likely to take his answer. Finding in my expression no very distressing anxiety, but simply a wish to know the truth, he replied: “‘Saviola has disappointed us all. If I were not speaking to you I should say that he is scarcely worthy of thought, still less of regret.’ “‘But—are you sure? Has he really and finally abandoned me?’ I repeated. “‘He has.’ “‘You are sure of this?’ “‘I am.’ His words and tones were grave, sweet and compassionate. “‘Where is he now?’ I next inquired. “‘In Paris.’ “‘I must write to him again, then,’ I said, with the idea that, although I no longer loved or respected the man, he was my husband, and to write to him was my duty. ‘I will—will write to him to-night.’ “‘You may do so,’ he said, gravely and tenderly. ‘Nay, I would even counsel you to do so for the relief of your own mind, and that you may never have the slightest cause for self-reproach. But I warn you that it will have no effect whatever upon Saviola. He will not answer your letter.’ “‘He has not answered any letter of mine since he left for Paris. But, surely, if I write and ask him, plainly, whether he ever means to return to me, and beg him to reply, so that I may know what to do, he will answer.’ “‘No, he will not. But, to satisfy yourself, write to him at once. Then you will know, Elfrida!’” “In the days when we three—Anglesea, my brother and myself were as intimate and familiar as the children of one house—he had followed suit with Francis and called me by my Christian name, and sometimes by its abbreviation. I had liked it then, and I liked it now, though this was the first time, since my marriage, that he had given it to me. “‘Yes, I will write to-night. I will write at once,’ I said. “‘Then I will bid you good-evening. There is a mail that closes at eleven o’clock. If I leave you now you may be able to secure it,’ he said, rising. “‘Thank you, Angus. Come again to-morrow,’ I said, using the name I had been accustomed to give him when he was the daily and beloved companion of my brother and myself.