CHAPTER VII
A VOICE IN THE NIGHT
The woman who presently turned to Mr. Converse was a very different woman from the one who had met him but a few minutes previously. As soon as the brief emotional outburst had exhausted itself her admirable poise and self-possession returned, and with it all the frigid reserve, the air of aloofness and apparent unconcern. But there was this immense difference:—where her attitude had been condescending and inflexibly hostile, it now conveyed a subtle suggestion of surrender, by recognizing some tremendous advantage which this man seemed to possess; she was no longer hard and unyielding, but ready to comply with any demands he might make; and he knew that every obstacle which served to seal her lips had been swept away as by a breath. Such was the potency of a name.
"Please be seated, Mr.—Mr. Converse," she finally said, her voice tense with controlled passion. There was no attempt at explanation, no apology,—unless this concession could be counted such,—and she faced him placidly, wholly at her ease.
"Was it of this," she continued, "that you talked to Charlotte Fairchild this morning?"
No doubt now why Joyce had inquired for him. So this leaven was at work.
"Yes, to a limited extent," was the cautious reply.
"You insinuated nothing—nothing—" she hesitated and still further lowered her voice, in which there was now a dominant note of anxiety, "you did not allow her to gather the idea that there was anything discreditable in General Westbrook's—"
"Pardon me," he broke in quietly. "I could hardly insinuate anything derogatory of the General's character, when I am ignorant that any such circumstance exists."
She looked at him doubtfully, narrowly, as if she would probe his thoughts, and presently sighed.
"If I only knew—" she breathed, vaguely.