"She sang for us that night, divinely."
"And you admire her so much?"
"Very much."
"Mr. Closs, I do not think I care to go. There is no need of your asking Lady Hope—I decline the whole thing."
"Still, I think we will go, Clara, if it is only to show you how much a woman can be worshipped, and yet despised. Yes, yes, we will go and hear Olympia sing."
But Clara was not to be so easily appeased. She gathered up her worsted and embroidery, huddled them together in her work-basket and went away, refusing to let Closs carry her basket, or even walk by her side.
While he stood watching the haughty little thing, a voice from the other side of the cedar tree arrested him. He turned, and saw a face that had once been familiar, but which he could not at the moment recognize.
The woman came forward with a startled look. She was evidently past thirty, and had an air of independence, which he had never seen in an English domestic.
She came closer, their eyes met, and he knew that it was Maggie Casey, the chambermaid who had led him up to that death-chamber, the last time he visited it. She had recognized him from the first.
"Mr. Hepworth," she said, in a low voice: "Mr. Hepworth!"