Jerome searched in vain for his book; it was nowhere to be found.
Nothing, save the bouquet that the lady had dropped, and which
lay half-buried in the grass, from having been trodden upon,
indicated that any one had been there that evening.
The stillness of death reigned over the place; even the little birds,
that had before been twittering and flying about, had retired
for the night.
Taking up the bunch of flowers, Jerome returned to his hotel. "What can
this mean?" he would ask himself; "and why should they take my book?"
These questions he put to himself again and again during his walk.
His sleep was broken more than once that night, and he welcomed the early
dawn as it made its appearance.
CHAPTER XXXII
THE HAPPY MEETING
AFTER passing a sleepless night, and hearing the clock strike six, Jerome took
from his table a book, and thus endeavored to pass away the hours before
breakfast-time. While thus engaged, a servant entered and handed him a note.
Hastily tearing it open, Jerome read as follows:--
"SIR,--I owe you an apology for the abrupt manner in which I addressed
you last evening, and the inconvenience to which you were subjected
by some of my household.
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