"Past praying for?" she echoed.
Her thoughts had strayed from the conversation—back to what she had been bidden to forget; and she spoke not as one who speaks a trivial phrase.
For an instant a gleam of something—anger or fright—shot from Maggie Dennison's eyes. The next, she was playfully, distantly, delicately chaffing Tom about the meaning of his sudden arrival.
"Of course not——" she began.
And Tom, interrupting, stopped the "Adela."
"And you stay here too?" he asked, to turn the conversation.
"Why, of course," smiled Mrs. Dennison. "After being here all this time, it would look rather funny if I ran away just when Harry's coming. I think he really would have a right to be aggrieved then." She paused, and added more seriously, "Oh, yes, I shall wait here for Harry."
Then Tom Loring rose and took his leave. Mrs. Dennison entrusted him with an invitation to the whole of the Seminghams' party to luncheon next day ("if they don't mind squeezing into our little room," she gaily added), and walked with him to the top of the path, waving her hand to him in friendly farewell as he began to descend. And, after he was gone, she stood for a while looking out to sea. Then she turned. Marjory was in the window and saw her face as she turned. In a moment Maggie Dennison saw her looking, and smiled brightly. But the one short instant had been enough. The feelings first numbed, then smothered, had in that second sprung to life, and Marjory shrank back with a little inarticulate cry of pain and horror. Almost as she uttered it, Mrs. Dennison was by her side.
"We'll go out this afternoon," she said. "I think I shall lie down for an hour. We managed to rob ourselves of a good deal of sleep last night. You'd better do the same." She paused, and then she added, "You're a good child, Marjory. You're very kind to me."
There was a quiver in her voice, but it was only that, and it was Marjory, not she, who burst into sobs.