“You wore too ill to be burdened with black. You are better now and may assume it if you will. I will help you buy your mourning.”
“Yes, you look like a kind woman. What is your name, please, and are we here alone in this great hotel?”
Now, as a matter of expediency—to save Carmel from the unendurable curiosity of the crowd, and herself from the importunities of the New York reporters, Miss Unwin had registered herself and her charge under assumed names. She was, therefore, forced to reply:
“My name is Huckins, and we are here alone. But that need not worry you. I have watched over you night and day for many weeks.”
“You have? Because of this slight burn?” Again Carmel’s hand went to her cheek.
“Not on account of that only. You have had a serious illness quite apart from that injury. But you are better; you are almost well—well enough to go home, if you will.”
“I cannot go home—not just yet. I’m—I’m not strong enough. But we shouldn’t be here alone without some man to look after us. Miss Huckins, where is my brother?”
At this question, uttered with emphasis, with anxiety—with indignation even—Miss Unwin felt the emotion she had so successfully subdued up to this moment, betray itself in her voice as she answered, with a quiet motion towards the elevator: “Let us go up to our room. There I will answer all your questions.”
But Carmel, with the waywardness of her years—or perhaps, with deeper reasoning powers than the other would be apt to attribute to her—broke softly away from Miss Unwin’s detaining hand, and walking directly into the office, looked about for the newspaper stand. Miss Unwin, over-anxious not to make a scene, followed, but did not seek to deter her, until they were once again by themselves in the centre of the room. Then she ventured to speak again:
“We have all the papers in our room. Come up, and let me read them to you.”