"Come here to the light, where I can see you best, Amarilly."
Reluctantly she came.
He turned his searching, artist's eyes upon her unsparingly, noting the violet shadows under the white-lidded eyes, and the hard, almost tragic lines in the drooping of her mobile mouth. She bore his gaze unflinchingly, with indrawn breath and clenched hands.
"What is it, Amarilly?" he asked gently. "You will tell me, nicht wahr?"
These two last words were in deference to her new study of German.
At the genuine sympathy in his voice, Amarilly's composure gave way and there was a rush of tears.
He led her to a divan and sat beside her.
"Yes, of course you will tell me, Amarilly. I knew there was an emotional side to my practical, little maid, and I noticed at breakfast that there was something wrong."
"Yes," she replied, with an effort, wiping away the rising tears, "I will tell you, but no one else. If I told Mr. Vedder, he would not understand; he would say I must do what was sensible. If I told Mr. St. John, he would be shocked, and tell me that duty was hard, and that was why it must be done,—to strengthen. Mrs. St. John would laugh, and say: 'Oh, what a foolish Amarilly!'"
"And what will I say, Amarilly?" he asked interestedly.