They met sometimes, but never on board the yacht, for that would have
outraged Mrs. Wilders's nice sense of propriety. It was generally at
Scutari, where poor young Anastasius Wilders lay hovering between life
and death, for Mrs. Wilders, with cousinly kindliness, came frequently
to the wounded lad's bedside.
She was bound for the other side of the Bosphorus as she went
downstairs one fine morning towards the end of October, dressed, as
usual, to perfection.
A man met her as she crossed the threshold, a man dressed like, and
with the air of, an Englishman--a pale-faced, sandy-haired man, with
white eyebrows, rather prominent cheek-bones, and a retreating chin.
"Good morning, my dear madam." He spoke with just the faintest accent,
betraying that English was not his native tongue. "Like a good Sister,
going to the hospital again?"
Mrs. Wilders bowed, and, with heightened colour, sought to pass
hastily on.
"What! not one word for so old a friend?" He spoke now in
French--perfect Parisian French.
"I wish you would not address me in public: you know you promised me
that," replied Mrs. Wilders, in a tone of much vexation, tinged with
the respect that is born of fear.
"Forgive me, madam, if I have presumed. But I thought you would wish
to hear the news."
"News! Of what?"
"Another battle, a fierce, terrible fight, in which, thank Heaven! the
English have suffered defeat!" He spoke with an exultation that proved
him to be a traitor, or no Englishman.
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