Brott was still awaiting for him.
"Mr. Brott," he said, "the Countess is, as I feared, too agitated
to see you again for the present, or any one else. She sends you,
however, this message."
He took the folded paper from his waistcoat pocket and handed it
to the other man. Brott read it through eagerly. His eyes shone.
"She accepts the situation, then?" he exclaimed.
"Precisely! Will you pardon me, my friend, if I venture upon one
other word. Lucille is not an ordinary woman. She is not in the
least like the majority of her sex, especially, I might add, amongst
us. The fact that her husband was living would seriously influence
her consideration of any other man--as her lover. The present
crisis, however, has changed everything. I do not think that you
will have cause to complain of her lack of gratitude."
Brott walked out into the streets with the half sheet of note-paper
twisted up between his fingers. For the first time for months he
was conscious of a distinct and vivid sense of happiness. The
terrible period of indecision was past. He knew now where he stood.
Nor was his immediate departure from England altogether unpleasant
to him. His political career was shattered--friends and enemies
were alike cold to him. Such an act of cowardice as his, such
pitiful shrinking back at the last fateful moment, was inexplicable
and revolting.
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