Master Simon started. His eyes shot a look of searching inquiry at the young woman who now came round to the side of the high table, and bent down to bring her fresh face to a level with his.
“Ellinor? Not Ellinor, not my daughter...!” he said.
“Ellinor. The only daughter you ever had. The only child, as far as I know!”
The tranquil voice had a pleasant, matter-of-fact note. The last words were pointed merely by a sudden deep dimple at the corner of the lips that spoke them. But it was trouble, amounting to agitation, that here took possession of the father. He pushed his chair back from the table, rubbed his hands through his scant silver locks, tugged at his beard.
“You’ve come on ... on a visit, I suppose?” he said presently, with hesitation.
“I have come to stay some time—a long time, if I may.”
“But—Marvel, but your husband?”
“Dead.”
The dimple disappeared, but the voice was quite unaltered. She had not shifted her position.
“Dead?” echoed Master Simon. His eyes travelled wonderingly from her black stuff gown—a widow’s gown indeed—to the head with its unwidow-like crown of hair; to the face so youthful, so curiously serene, so unmournful.