Stuart’s hand fell, and he bowed his head to the arm of the chair.
“You are ill!” Margery went on, quickly. “Let me——”
Stuart raised his head and rose to his feet, steadying himself with one hand on the chair.
“I was dreaming,” he answered, hurriedly; “but I am awake now, Lady Court.”
The color faded from Margery’s face.
“Your husband has gone to Beverley Town,” Stuart continued, in a voice that sounded strange in his own ears. “He settled me comfortably in his own ‘den’ before starting, and told me that he would be home to dinner.”
Margery bowed her head and turned toward the door, when Stuart moved forward as if to arrest her.
“As I shall leave you this evening,” he said, hurriedly, “I will take the present opportunity of informing you that the letter and proofs I spoke of this morning shall be sent to you as soon as possible.”
“You are very kind,” responded Margery, as calmly as possible. “Thank you for all you have done.”
There was a pause. Margery felt as if some strong, unknown power held her to the spot. She wished to move away, yet could not; and Stuart let his eyes rest on her fair loveliness, feeling that his resolution to depart was growing weaker and weaker as he gazed.