The Story Continued by Marian Halcombe

evident reluctance to approach it) a dangerous subject as well, in the estimation of the Count. These considerations occurred to me while we were passing from the dining-room to the drawing-room. Sir Percival’s angry commentary on his friend’s desertion of him had not produced the slightest effect. The Count obstinately accompanied us to the tea-table⁠—waited a minute or two in the room⁠—went out into the hall⁠—and returned with the postbag in his hands. It was then eight o’clock⁠—the hour at which the letters were always despatched from Blackwater Park. “Have you any letter for the post, Miss Halcombe?” he asked, approaching me with the bag. I saw Madame Fosco, who was making the tea, pause, with the sugar-tongs in her hand, to listen for my answer. “No, Count, thank you. No letters today.” He gave the bag to the servant, who was then in the room; sat down at the piano, and played the air of the lively Neapolitan street-song, “ La mia Carolina ,” twice over. His wife, who was usually the most deliberate of women in all her movements, made the tea as quickly as I could have made it myself⁠—finished her own cup in two minutes, and quietly glided out of the room. I rose to follow her example⁠—partly because I suspected her of attempting some treachery upstairs with Laura, partly because I was resolved not to remain alone in the same room with her husband.