"Mrs. Powell, Mr. Hammond's niece."
"Agnes Powell?"
"Yes. Agnes Powell."
During the next three minutes one might have distinctly heard a pin fall, for the ticking of two watches was very audible.
Estelle glanced first at her cousin, then at her aunt, then back at her cousin. Mrs. Murray involuntarily laid her hand on her son's knee, and watched his face with an expression of breathless anxiety; and Edna saw that, though his lips blanched, not a muscle moved, not a nerve twitched; and only the deadly hate, that appeared to leap into his large shadowy eyes, told that the name stirred some bitter memory.
The silence was growing intolerable when Mr. Murray turned his gaze full on Estelle, and said in his usual sarcastic tone:
"Have you seen a ghost? Your letter must contain tidings of Victor's untimely demise; for, if there is such a thing as retribution, such a personage as Nemesis, I swear that poor devil of a Count has crept into her garments and come to haunt you. Did he cut his white womanish throat with a penknife, or smother himself with charcoal fumes, or light a poisoned candle and let his poor homoeopathic soul drift out dreamily into eternity? If so, Gabriel will require a powerful microscope to find him. Notwithstanding the fact that you destined him for my cousin, the little curly creature always impressed me as being a stray specimen of an otherwise extinct type of intellectual Lacrymatoria. Is he really dead? Peace to his infusorial soul! Who had the courage to write and break the melancholy tidings to you? Or perhaps, after all, it is only the ghost of your own conscience that has brought that scared look into your face."
She laughed and shrugged her shoulders.
"How insanely jealous you are of Victor! He's neither dead nor dreaming of suicide, but enjoying himself vastly in Baden-Baden. Edna, did Mrs. Powell bring Gertrude with her?"
"Yes."