Kenelm Eyrle stood aside while the earl came to her and kissed the pallid face.
“My dearest Hermione, you look very ill; what is the matter? Why have you not sent for us? You must have been ill for days.”
“He does not know yet,” she thought, clutching the packet still more tightly in her white hands.
“Sit down, my darling,” said Lord Lorriston. “You look so unfit to stand—so unfit, God help you, to bear more trouble or sorrow.”
“Is there any more for me?” she asked. “I thought my cup was quite full. What is it, father? I do not think anything can hurt me now.”
He did not understand her—he did not know she had any greater trouble than the absence of her husband.
“I have sad news for you, my darling; you will require all your fortitude to enable you to bear it.”
She smiled so faintly, so sadly, that his heart ached for her.
“I have plenty of fortitude, papa. Do not fear for me—tell me what is wrong. I come of a race that knows how to endure.”
“I have had letters from Alexandria this morning; and, Hermione, there is bad news from your husband.”