"Oh, my dear Eleanor!"
"No, I don't. I'll go in now. Don't let any one disturb us. He—he may have come to see me to talk about something."
She went into the room, and Yorke turned to meet her. It was well that she had been forewarned of the change in his appearance. As it was, she could scarcely suppress the cry that rose to her lips.
"Well, Yorke," she said, with affected lightness, "tying up aunt's books? That is so like her. No one can come near her without getting employed. What a shame to worry you!"
"It doesn't worry me," he said.
He leaned against the table and looked down at her. There is a picture of Millais's—it is called, I think, 'A Hot-house Flower'—which Lady Eleanor might have sat for that morning, so delicate, so graceful, so refined and blanche was her beauty. She wore a loose dress of soft cashmere, cream in color, almost Greek in fashion. Her hair was like gold, her eyes placid yet tender, with a touch of subdued sadness and anxiety in them. A charming, an irresistible picture, and one that appealed to this man with the storm-beaten heart aching in his bosom.
She glanced up at him, saw the haggard face, the dark rings round the eyes, that indescribable look which pain and despair and utter abandonment produce as plainly as the die stamps the hall-mark on the piece of silver, and her heart yearned for him, for his love—yearned for the right to comfort and soothe him. Ah! if he would only have it so—if he would only let her, how happy she would make him! All this, and much more, she felt; but she looked quite placid and serene—like a dainty lily unstirred by the wind—and said in her soft voice:
"We were thinking of advertising for you Yorke. Have you been away?"
He might have answered: "Yes, I have been in the Valley of Sorrow and Tribulation, on the Desert of Dead Love and Vain Hope," but instead he replied:
"No, just here in London; but I have been busy."