She was at his side in an instant, and had drawn his wasted arm within her firm, strong one almost before he knew of it.
“I am afraid you are ill,” she said.
He started as her sweet, musical voice sounded in his ears, and raised his eyes to her face.
“No, no,” he said, evidently with an effort. “But I have been ill, and—and I am a little weak, which,” he added, with all the old courtesy, “is my good fortune, seeing that it has procured me the—the happiness of your assistance. You are English. I took you for an Italian. My eyes are not so strong”—he stopped, from sheer weakness, and leaned upon her arm heavily, if the word can be used in connection with the lightness of his frail form—“not so strong as they were. I have the misfortune to be old, you see,” and he forced a smile.
“Let me help you to the seat there,” said Doris, gently.
“Thank you, thank you; but I could not think of troubling a lady——”
Disregarding his apologies, she led him carefully to the seat, into which he sank with a sigh of weary relief. Doris looked at him anxiously. It was a striking face, and a vague kind of idea crossed her mind that she had seen it somewhere before to-day, but she could not fix the time or place, and presently she found the keen, glittering eyes fixed in a meditative scrutiny upon herself.
“You have been very kind to me, my dear young lady,” he said, in a voice that still trembled a little; “very kind. And you are English? Will you tell me your name? I am an old man, and claim an old man’s privilege—inquisitiveness—you see.”
“My name is Doris—Doris Marlowe,” said Doris, seating herself beside him, and looking down the road in the hope that a carriage might come up in which she could place him.
“Doris Marlowe? No,” he shook his head; “I never heard it before; and yet I fancied your face awakened some dim memories. Do you know me, Miss Marlowe?”