"Nigel has not seen Malcolm yet."
Nigel looked up at Fulvia in gratitude; and he did not at once look away. His eyes studied her gravely for two or three seconds; and Fulvia knew at once that she might have, but must not allow, the word of sympathy for which she had been craving.
"Malcolm—no. But—" Daisy began.
"You know that he is Curate at St. Peter's now, of course," Fulvia said cheerfully, smiling at Nigel.
His eyes were on her still, in a kind gaze—exactly the frank concerned gaze which a brother might bestow on a sister, and, as she knew, not at all the kind of gaze that he would have bestowed upon Ethel under like circumstances. But the kindness was marked; and Fulvia found herself tingling with a rush of feeling. She saw that he was about to speak. This would never do. She was lifting a full breakfast-cup to pass across the table, and the next moment it had dropped from her hand, causing a crash of broken china, and deluging the white tablecloth. So neatly was the thing done that even Nigel did not at once suspect its non-accidental nature.
"How stupid of me! I must be demented!" exclaimed Fulvia, starting up. "And I have always prided myself on never letting anything fall. I shall begin to think my fingers are growing buttery at last." She rang the bell, and came back to stand over the swamped table, laughing. "What a horrible mess! I hope nobody wants any more tea, for the teapot is pretty well emptied. Oh, we were just speaking about Malcolm. You know that he is going to live at home for a time, don't you?"
Nigel seemed to be lost in a brown study. "Yes—the last letters from home told me," he said, when a pause drew his attention to the question. "I don't see why he should not. St. Peter's is near to St. Stephen's."
But his eyes went again to Fulvia inquiringly.
"The best thing in the world for them all, I should say," she remarked in a light tone. "Ethel seemed delighted with the plan. There was talk of lodgings for him at first, I believe, but that is given up—naturally. By-the-bye, I wonder if you thought Ethel improved in looks. Mr. Carden-Cox declares she has grown quite pretty. I never do think her that, but she has pretty manners—and after all, it is a matter of opinion. Almost everybody is thought handsome by somebody. However, you could hardly tell in a few minutes. Of course you will be going there again to-day, to see Malcolm."
Mrs. Browning did not like this, neither did Anice, and Daisy's brown eyes were round as saucers. Fulvia could see the faces of all three, without looking at any of them; her senses being doubly acute this morning. The last words had been hard to utter smilingly, and again she was aware of Nigel's attention. It was almost more than she could bear, meaning to her so much, yet in itself so little. The tingling sensation came back, and with it a choking in her throat. She had just power to say—