Here she again bent down her head, and was lost in an access of fresh afflictions.
Never was an elderly gentleman more puzzled than Sir William. He felt that he ought to offer consolation, but of what nature or for what calamity he could n't even guess. It was an awkward case altogether, and he never fancied awkward cases at any time. Then he had that unchivalric sentiment that elderly gentlemen occasionally will have,—a sort of half distrust of “injured women.” This was joined to a sense of shame that it was usually supposed by the world men of his time of life were always the ready victims of such sympathies. In fact, he disliked the situation immensely, and could only muster a few commonplace remarks to extricate himself from it.
“You'll let me tell you everything; I know you will,” said she, looking bewitchingly soft and tender through her tears.
“Of coarse I will, my dear Mrs. Morris, but not now,—not to-day. You really are not equal to it at this moment.”
“True, I am not!” said she, drying her eyes; “but it is a promise, and you 'll not forget it.”
“You only do me honor in the confidence,” said he, kissing her hand.
“A thousand pardons!” cried a rich brogue. And at the same moment the library door was closed, and the sound of retreating steps was heard along the corridor.
“That insufferable O'Shea!” exclaimed she. “What will he not say of us?”