Some time elapsed before Mrs. Gerome re-entered the parlor, bearing a glass of wine in her hand. Miss Dexter had bathed her face, and, looking up, she saw that the gray hair had been carefully coiled and fastened, and the flowing merino belted at the waist; but the brow wore its heavy cloud, and the arch of the lip had not unbent.
“I hope you are better. Permit me to insist upon your taking this wine.”
She proffered it, but the governess shook her head, and tears ran down her cheeks, as she said,—
“Thank you,—but I do not require it; indeed I could not swallow it.”
The hostess bowed, and, placing the glass within her reach, walked to the window which looked out on the marble mausoleum, and stood leaning against the cedarn facing.
Five, ten minutes passed, and the silence was only broken by the ticking of the bronze clock on the mantelpiece.
“Evelyn.”
The voice was so sweet, so thrilling, so mournfully pleading, that it might have wooed even stone to pity; but Mrs. Gerome merely glanced over her shoulder, and said, frigidly,—
“Can I in any way contribute to Miss Dexter’s comfort? The servants tell me there is no conveyance waiting for you; but, since you seem too feeble to walk away, my carriage is at your service whenever you wish to return. Shall I order it?”
“No, I will not trouble you. I can walk; and, after a little while, I will go away forever. Evelyn, do you think me utterly unprincipled?”