"O no, indeed!" Lettice could not let this pass in justice to the Valentines. "They would have kept me any length of time. Only Felix thought—and thought—it would not be right."
"I'm sure I wish—" Theodosia's sentence could not have been clearer, if fully uttered. "Why not 'right,' pray?"
"They are—no relations," faltered Lettice.
"Are we?—" in an undertone.
"I thought—Dr. Bryant—"
"He was related to your sister. Not to you yourself, of course."
"Sissie—my sister—had told me—" Lettice could not finish the sentence: and Theodosia moved impatiently.
"Do stop crying, pray." Then, in a tone of surprise—"Maurice! To-day! You said you would not come before to-morrow."
"Have you any objection, my dear?"
Theodosia made no answer. Dr. Bryant kissed her, patted Keith on the head, then passed on to the chair from which Lettice had risen. She said nothing, only lifted two brown eyes, wide-open and filled to the brim with tears. The upward look was singularly sweet and pathetic; and the inscrutable calm of the doctor's face changed slightly under it. He took her two little chill hands into his, and bent to kiss her brow,—a welcome so unexpected, that one or two big tears splashed on his wrist, despite all her efforts. She was glad that he stood between her and Theodosia, from whom a slight sound, half laugh, half sneer, could be heard.