Then he roved over to the trunk he had packed with such forethought.
"Poor old Velantour! He will be disappointed, too," he whispered. "But of the two old men who love me, one has to go to the wall. And it shan't be dad."
He tramped up and down restlessly until he heard the sound of wheels.
"Not in this cab, you are not," her voice answered him. "This is mine. Yours will be here in ten minutes, and you will have lots of time then."
"What?" he called, halfway to the door, and not believing his ears.
The door swung open, and in it he saw--himself.
Clad in loosely hanging dull gray velveteens, with a soft cravat the color of pigeon blood. Over his arm a long crimson-lined cape hung, half-concealing a suit case. The face, which was his, laughed at him triumphantly, and shook its dark hair, worn a trifle long, back from the forehead.
In the disencumbered hand a soft felt hat waved him back with a dash of bravado.
"Tell Berthe what you please when she comes with your cab," his own voice cried gayly. "I've just time to catch the London train. You are for the east, I believe." Then, as he stood thunderstruck, his double laughed exultantly.
"There's a letter, with copious details, on your dresser," the apparition stated, with a lilt of pure joy of escapade. "Considering the shortness of the time, I think I've been marvelous in thinking out all possible exigencies."
And to his gesture of protest, of incredulity: "Don't argue! You are to live the life you care for, for your three wonderful months, and so shall I. It's not sacrifice. It's selfishness. I want to go desperately. And I'll write you here--volumes. You'll find them when you get back."
Then that voice which was his, and was not his, chanted saucily:
"Rue Boissonade Shall have its Claude, And l'Amerique The new Van Dyck; But Carrington Shall have his son."
The doorway was empty. He heard a _cocher_ crack his whip, and a cab-horse evidently making record time. Five francs, _mon Dieu, ça vaut la peine_!
Ned Carrington stood bewildered. What should he do? He might follow her--might make a scene--but he was always worsted when Elenore became daintily willful. She was quite capable of carrying it off, too. And it _was_ a lark!
A cab came clattering up the little street. The call of the East came to him with an overpowering lure. A wave of joy swept over him that he _could_ go, after all. He felt a fury of impatience to be off. He grudged the time to give Berthe her instructions, to snatch Elenore's letter from the dresser, to catch up his hat and coat. The mere thought to do these things should be enough. But Berthe's willing feet were speeding up the stairway. He flung the rug from his more-than-ready trunk, and laughed as he touched the strap caressingly with his fingers.