"I saw him yesterday, and he told me that his life had no value for him now that he had lost you, and that he should never live in his house unless you were the mistress of it. I shouldn't imagine he felt particularly jolly under those circumstances. However, it is no use worrying ourselves on his account," the little woman added cheerfully, seeing tears in her cousin's gentle eyes.
"But I am so sorry for him!"
"That won't help him much, my dear. And if you are happy, I suppose that is all we need care about."
"Oh, no, Beatrice!"
"We haven't time to fret over other people's troubles," Mrs. Reade proceeded, in what Rachel thought an exceedingly heartless manner; "life is too short."
"But, Beatrice——"
"Now, I can't talk about Mr. Kingston any more. I have all my packing to do yet, and I must run away and see after it. Good-bye, dearest child. Mind you write often. I wish you were going with me—I can't bear to leave you behind."
Rachel flung her arms round her small cousin with characteristic fervour.
"When do you think you will come home again?" she inquired tremulously, almost in a whisper.
"I can't say, dear, exactly."