But a second glance at Mrs. Lawrence's face showed me the folly of such a thought. She was no adventuress—she was a gentle, cultured Christian woman, who had suffered, as all mortals must, but had still preserved her sweetness and serenity, as few mortals do. Yet more and more was I perplexed by that indefinable abstraction in her behaviour, which seemed somehow out of tune with the circumstances. Perhaps she was really more moved than she seemed to be; perhaps her apparent indifference was in reality only an admirable self-control. I fancied that it had given way for an instant when she was telling us the story of her daughter's disappearance. If I could only hit upon some way to startle her out of her self-possession, I might yet learn——
She turned suddenly and met my eyes. She flushed painfully—perhaps she read my thought; and instantly I blamed myself for my clumsiness in permitting my suspicion to appear in my face. It was a mischance not easily retrieved.
"I have told you all I know," she said, rising quickly, and answering the question I had not uttered. "I feel the need of rest. If I can help you in any way, command me."
"Thank you," I answered, and opened the door for her.
She paused on the threshold—glanced around—her eyes rested on Burr Curtiss's dreary face. In an instant, she was beside him, bending over him with infinite tenderness.
"Dear boy," she said, so low I could scarcely hear her, and smoothed back his hair with a gesture almost motherly, "dear boy, don't worry so. I'm sure it will all come right."
He looked up and smiled at her tremulously. With a quick impulsiveness, she stooped and kissed him, then went rapidly from the room, leaving me, at least, more puzzled than before at this sudden glimpse of unsuspected depths of tenderness.
I closed the door after her and turned back to Curtiss.
"Has Mrs. Lawrence favoured your suit for her daughter's hand?" I asked.
"Favoured it?" he repeated. "Yes, from the very first."