A crucifix of
inferior workmanship and realistically painted hung opposite the door.
The place was reserved for the use of ladies in retreat and was situated
outside the constantly closed door which shut off the cloistered part of
the convent from the small portion accessible to outsiders.
Keyork Arabian was standing in the middle of the parlour waiting for
Beatrice. When she entered at last he made two steps forward, bowing
profoundly, and then smiled in a deferential manner.
"My dear lady," he said, "I am here. I have lost no time. It so happened
that I received your note just as I was leaving my carriage after a
morning drive. I had no idea that you were in Bohemia."
"Thanks. It was good of you to come so soon."
She sat down upon one of the stiff chairs and motioned to him to follow
her example.
"And your dear father--how is he?" inquired Keyork with suave
politeness, as he took his seat.
"My father died a week ago," said Beatrice gravely.
Keyork's face assumed all the expression of which it was capable. "I
am deeply grieved," he said, moderating his huge voice to a soft and
purring sub-bass. "He was an old and valued friend."
There was a moment's silence. Keyork, who knew many things, was well
aware that a silent feud, of which he also knew the cause, had existed
between father and daughter when he had last been with them, and he
rightly judged from his knowledge of their obstinate characters that
it had lasted to the end.
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