After she had addressed the letter, from fear that the post might not deliver it quickly enough, she gave it to a messenger with the order to deliver it immediately.
The following night she did not close her eyes. She was dressed at six o'clock. She still hoped that he would come, but it struck eleven--twelve. He did not come.
Then suddenly an idea occurred to her. Lady Banbury! If any one could help her it was she. She might be back in London, although her last letter was dated from Mortimar Castle. Nita dons hat and gloves and hurries out on the street, while she takes the first hansom she sees.
"Manchester Square, No. 34, and make haste!" she cries. She knows Lady Banbury's strong character, knows she can count on her in case she is in London.
The hansom stops; with beating heart Nita asks the servant who opens the door: "Lady Banbury at home?"
The servant answers he does not know, he will see. Nita scratches a few words on her card, and he vanishes.
A few moments she waits, and then he returns and conducts her up-stairs into a large, comfortable room. Here sits Lady Banbury. At Nita's entrance she rises and goes to meet the girl with open arms. "My dear child, what a surprise! How glad I am! What brings you to London--yes, what is it? You are deathly pale. You are struggling against tears."
"Ah, dear Lady Banbury," says Nita, "I come to you in a desperate emergency in which your assistance alone can avail. Please--do not refuse me!"
"Tell me--but first come to yourself, dear child!"
Nita sits down. A load has fallen from her heart. There in the Rembrandt half-light of the old lady's pretty boudoir she unburdens her overflowing heart to Lady Banbury. At first hesitatingly, then more fluently and impressively, she tells the old lady Mascha's story, does what she can to win her for the poor little girl, forgets none of the many little features which are proofs of Mascha's incomparable goodness of heart, and of the blind innocence which led her to her misfortune. Then, as she suddenly, in her enthusiasm, looks up at Lady Banbury, and perceives that her face has grown stiff and stern, in her great despair she throws herself down on the carpet before her, and clasping her knees, she cries: "Oh, I beg you, do not look so severe. I know that it is all horrible. I am no more lenient than you; but one must be sorry for Mascha. I have not found the right words to describe it to you, or else----"