“I am quite well, and I did wish to see you, sir,” she said, “I wish to thank you for all you have done for me. I scarcely know yet the extent of your kindness”—her voice faltered—“I think I must have been ill, for I seem to have forgotten”—she put her hand to her brow for a moment, then with an effort recovered herself.
“What I have done, my dear Miss Marlowe, does not deserve a word of thanks. It has been a sad satisfaction to me to have been of some slight service to you.”
“But you have done everything,” persisted Doris, in a low voice—“everything! Why——?” she stopped abruptly, the question sounded a cold and ungrateful one.
But Mr. Spenser Churchill filled up the pause.
“You would—and not unnaturally—ask why I have taken upon myself to interfere in your affairs, my dear young lady?”
Doris made a slight gesture of dissent.
“Well, we will not say interfere,” he murmured, softly; “we will use the word ‘interested.’ The question is very easily answered. For one thing, I happened to be on the spot when your poor guardian—but we will not recall the sad scene,” he broke off, as Doris winced and her face grew paler. “And the second reason is that I was once a friend of poor Mr. Jeffrey’s.”
“A friend?” Doris could not help saying.
He shot a sharp glance at her, unseen by her, and sighed.
“I understand your surprise,” he said, mournfully. “You will observe that I said that I was once a friend. Some time ago, I regret to say, a difference arose between us. I do not know whether you know the circumstances, whether he ever told you?”