"He has been making arrangements for her. I wish he could have lived a month longer, then we would have been quite sure of the success or failure of his patent."
Floyd says this in a grave, measured tone.
"There is always a convent," says madame, with a sweet, serious smile. "I believe in this country, or at least among Protestants, there is no such refuge for young or old in times of trouble."
He does not wish to pursue the subject.
"I am so sorry Eugene is not at home. You go to-morrow?"
There is not the slightest inhospitable inflection to this, but if he had said, "Why do you go?" or "You had better wait," her heart would have throbbed with pleasure. One could announce a delay so easily by telegram.
"I meant to see you started on your journey," he begins, and there is a curious something in his tone. "Briggs had better go and see to your luggage, and if you will accept my mother's company——"
"You cannot go?" There is a soft pleading, a regret that touches him, and makes him feel that he is playing false, and yet he surely is not. There is no reason why he should tell her of the coming step when he has hardly decided himself.
"No," he answers, briefly. "I ought not leave St. Vincent an hour. My impression is that he will die at midnight or dawn. I have no one to whom I can depute any of the arrangements."
It does not enter her mind that a little girl who plays with dolls or dishes can have anything in common with him. Possibly he may be made her guardian. She wants to stay, and yet there is no real excuse.