'Very dear,' I said gravely.
'A lady friend?' she asked, with smiles.
'She of whom I speak,' I said, 'was a woman.'
'Was!' echoed Miss Glaive.
'She is dead,' I explained.
'I am sorry,' said Miss Glaive very gently; 'I beg your pardon.'
I was strangely stirred by her sympathising words. There was a little pause, and I moved again, towards the door, not wishing to leave, but finding no cause to stay. Again her voice arrested me.
'If you go now,' she said, 'I shall be quite sure that I have frightened you away. Papa declares that no one makes tea like me; I tell him he knows nothing about it. Do you drink tea, Mr. Carey? You shall be the judge.'
'And after tea,' added Mr. Glaive with an observant look at me--he had grown calmer while his daughter and I were speaking--'Fanny will give us some music.'
Miss Glaive did not ask for my verdict upon her tea-making, and soon sat down to the piano and played. In this quiet way an hour must have passed without a word being spoken. It was a new experience to me, and it took me out of myself as it were. The peaceful room, the presence of this graceful girl, and the sweet melodies she played, softly and dreamily, seemed to me to belong to another and a better world than that in which I was accustomed to move. It was strangely unreal and strangely beautiful. The music ceased, and Miss Glaive came to my side.