The maid vanished, and with a slight sigh Mr. Fitzalan put aside his sermon papers, wondering whether he would find himself so well in the mood for work after a delay. Mr. Fitzalan was an extempore preacher, in the sense of not reading from a written sermon, but his subject was always well worked out beforehand upon paper.
"May I come in? You are not too busy?" asked Hermione at the door.
"Not at all." Mr. Fitzalan would not even suggest haste, whereby the interview might be shortened. Most people would have counted that Hermione looked exactly the same as usual, as she glided gently in, taking a proffered chair, and letting her black draperies fall gracefully. But Mr. Fitzalan saw a difference.
"Harvey and his wife come yet?" he asked.
"Yes; and the Trevors. Mr. Fitzalan, did you know about those people— Mrs. Trevor and her child?"
"Marjory said something."
"Marjory only knows what I told her—that they were to be here for a visit. I thought it bad taste to ask them just now, but I had no idea of anything further—no idea of their always living with us."
"Is that to be the plan? Well, the Hall is large enough," Mr. Fitzalan said cautiously.
"Harvey has told me nothing. But from what the child says—"
Hermione's voice was not so calm as usual, not by any means so calm as she wished. It trembled, and a bright flush rose anew in her cheeks, filling the eyes with a troubled light.