The servant came back.
"Mr. Nelson's compliments, but he had taken breakfast hours ago."
The woman absolutely turned pale. It was the first time he had ever refused an advance of any kind from her. She arose, stood in thought an instant, and then left the room.
"Master is in his office, madame," said the servant.
"Yes, I know—he was not well this morning."
She swept through the hall again, and crossing two or three rooms, entered one in the extreme southern wing of the house. In this place, Nelson had, of late, taken his meals alone. It was simply an office upon the ground floor, containing a few chairs, an oaken bookcase, heavy with carving, and a library table, which stood in the centre of a small Persian carpet. There was nothing very remarkable in this apartment, except one thing. The floor was paved like the entrance hall, with a rich mosaic pattern of variously tinted marble. Mrs. Nelson felt a chill from the stones through her thin slippers, and exclaimed:
"Dear me, Nelson, what a dreary place you have! All wood work and stone. I never observed how very comfortless it was before."
Nelson was locking something in a drawer of his writing-table, and his face was bent, but she saw the blood rush to his forehead.
"I do not find it disagreeable," he said, gravely.
"Ah, but my room is so much pleasanter," she said, approaching the table, and laying a hand caressingly on his arm.