“My opera-glass,” said Marian. “No, thanks: you would not know where to look for it: I will go myself.”
She went upstairs; and Conolly, after a pause, followed, and found her in their bedroom, closing the drawer from which she had just taken the opera-glass.
“Marian,” he said: “you have been crying to-day. Is anything wrong? or is it only nervousness?”
“Only nervousness,” said Marian. “How did you find out that I had been crying? it was only for an instant, because Nelly annoyed me. Does my face shew it?”
“It does to me, not to anyone else. Are you more cheerful now?”
“Yes, I am all right. I will go to Glasgow with you, if you like.”
Conolly recoiled, disconcerted. “Why?” he said. “Do you wish——?” He recovered himself, and added, “It is too cold, my dear; and I must travel very fast. I shall be busy all the time. Besides, you are forgetting the theatre and Douglas, who, by the bye, is catching cold on the steps.”
“Well, I had better go with Douglas, since it will make you happier.”
“Go with Douglas, my dear one, if it will make you happier,” said he, kissing her. To his surprise, she threw her arm round him, held him fast by the shoulder, and looked at him with extraordinary earnestness. He gave a little laugh, and disengaged himself gently, saying, “Dont you think your nervousness is taking a turn rather inconvenient for Douglas?” She let her hands fall; closed her lips; and passed quietly out. He went to the window and watched her as she entered the carriage. Douglas held the door open for her; and Conolly, looking at him with a sort of pity, noted that he was, in his way, a handsome man and that his habit of taking himself very seriously gave him a certain, dignity. The brougham rolled away into the fog. Conolly pulled down the blind, and began to pack his portmanteau to a vigorously whistled accompaniment.