I began to think the Pontiac was haunted. I thought you were a
ghost. I don't know why such a ghost should _frighten_ anybody," he
went on with a desperate attempt to recover his position by gallantry.
"Let me see--that's Donna Elvira's dress--is it not?"
"I don't think that was the poor woman's name," said Rosey simply; "she
died of yellow fever at New Orleans as Signora Somebody."
Her ignorance seemed to Mr. Renshaw so plainly to partake more of the
nun than the provincial, that he hesitated to explain to her that he
meant the heroine of an opera.
"It seems dreadful to put on the poor thing's clothes, doesn't it?" she
added.
Mr. Renshaw's eyes showed so plainly that he thought otherwise, that
she drew a little austerely towards the door of her state-room.
"I must change these things before any one comes," she said dryly.
"That means I must go, I suppose. But couldn't you let me wait here or
in the gangway until then, Miss Nott? I am going away to-night, and I
mayn't see you again." He had not intended to say this, but it slipped
from his embarrassed tongue.
Pages:
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641