Opening her eyes, she met the gaze, grieved, pitiful, indignant, of her companion.
"What is to be done?"
Her lips framed the words with difficulty.
A pause; then he said—
"I cannot hold out much hope. But will you come with me to—to—his house and make inquiries?"
She bowed her head, and gathering herself together, led the way from the room.
The snow was falling thick and fast as they emerged from the house, and Lord Watergate handed her into his brougham. It had grown very dark, and the wind had risen.
"The Sycamores," said Lord Watergate to his coachman, as he took his seat by Gertrude, and drew the fur about her knees.
Mrs. Maryon, watching from the shop window, shrugged her shoulders.
"Who would have thought it? But you never can tell. And that Phyllis! It's twice I've seen her with the fair-haired gentleman, with his beard cut like a foreigner's. It's what you'd expect from her, poor creature—but Gertrude!"