“Don’t be angry with me, Stephen, now I am here. You must tell me what I am to do.” Then her eyes wandered round the house. “What a large house! Is it yours, Stephen?”
“Eh?” he said, starting slightly. “I—I—don’t know—I mean it was my uncle’s. I was going to write to-night and tell you where I was, and why I did not write before.”
“Why didn’t you?” she said, with gentle reproach.
“Because,” he replied, “I could not—it was impossible. I could not leave the house, and could not trust the letter to a servant. My uncle has been very ill: he—he—lies dead up-stairs.”
“Up-stairs! Oh, Stephen!”
“You see,” he exclaimed reproachfully, “that I have a good excuse, that I have not desert—left you without a word for no cause.”
“Forgive me, Stephen, dear!” she murmured, penitently. “Do not be angry with me. Say you are glad to see me now I have come.”
“Of course I am glad to see you, but I am not glad you have come, my dear Laura. What am I to do with you? I am not alone here, you know. The house is full of servants; any moment someone may come in. Think of the awkward position in which your precipitancy has placed me—has placed both of us!”
“I never thought of that—I did not know. Why did you not tell me you were with your uncle? Oh, Stephen, why have you hidden things from me?”
“Hidden things?” he echoed, with ill-concealed impatience. “I did not think that it was worth telling. I did not know that I was coming—I was fetched suddenly. Now that I come to think of it, I told Slummers to call and tell you.”