“Certainly,” said Hugh, relieved, somehow, of part of the uneasy sensation excited by the situation by this suggestion. “But I confess I thought you older.”
“I was eighteen last March,” she said, gravely. “And my friend, Lady Forwood, was twenty-four.”
Eighteen—and a wife! Hugh looked pityingly at her. It seemed to him that parents who could wed a child of seventeen to a young roué of twenty-six were almost criminal in their rashness—or worse than rashness.
“But, your son, he would like to go out?” said the princess. “Monsieur, you and he, can you not come sometimes to Lady Forwood—to Lady Boisville? Then I could see you.”
“Impossible,” said Hugh, suddenly rising. This curious interview had lasted long enough.
“You will not?”
She sat back on the settee, and to his astonishment, a deathlike pallor spread over her face. A shrunken look aged her sweet youthful features, her eyes seemed to harden and recede beneath her dark eyebrows. His conscience smote him.
“I will try and see you again soon,” he said, lamely.
She raised her eyes languidly. He could not bear to see such abject misery on so young a face.... Young? This girl was younger than Ralph, more than young enough to be his own child. And so alone—and he could help her; he saw, he felt that there was some strong bond of sympathy between them.
Without further thought, he almost flung himself down upon the settee at her side.