watched with the natural instinct of his profession and a strong
impulse to write to the lad's parents and have him taken away. But
Montjoie had no parents. He had attained his majority, and was supposed
by the law capable of taking care of himself. What did that woman mean
to do with the boy? She had some designs upon him. But there was nobody
to whom Mr. Derwentwater could confide his suspicions, or whom he could
ask what the Contessa meant. MTutor had not on the whole a pleasant
visit. He was disappointed in that which had been his chief object--his
favourite pupil was detached from him, he knew not how--and this other
boy, whom, though he did not love him, he could not help feeling a sort
of responsibility for, was in danger from a designing woman, a woman out
of a French play, _L'Aventuriere_, something of that sort. Mr.
Derwentwater felt that he could not drag himself away, the attractions
were so strong. He wanted to see the _denouement_; still more he wanted
to see Bice. No drama in the world had so powerful an interest. But
though it was so impossible to go away, it was not pleasant to stay.
Jock did not want him. Lucy, though she was always sweet and friendly,
had a look of haste and over-occupation; her eyes wandered when she
talked to him; her mind was occupied with other things. Most of the men
of the party were more than indifferent; were disagreeable to him. He
thought they were a danger for Jock. And Bice never was visible; that
moment on the balcony--those few minutes in the park--the half dozen
words which had been so "suggestive," he thought, which had woke so many
echoes in his mind--these were all he had had of her. Had she intended
them to awaken echoes? He asked himself this question a thousand times.
Had she willingly cast this seed of thought into his mind to
germinate--to produce--what result? If it was so, then, indeed, all the
little annoyances of his stay would be a cheap price to pay. It did not
occur to this judicious person, whose influence over his pupils was so
great, and who had studied so deeply the mind of youth, that a girl of
sixteen was but little likely to be consciously suggestive--to sow, with
any intention in her mind, seeds of meaning to develop in his. To do him
justice, he was as unconscious of the limits of sixteen in Bice's case
as we all are in the case of Juliet. She was of no age. She was the
ideal woman capable of comprehensions and intentions as far above
anything poss