Mrs. Bruce’s early disappearance from the inn, her heavy eyes this morning, Betsy’s warnings and exhortations to him in the Park, and Mrs. Bruce’s exhibition of unfriendliness to Rosalie last night, all pointed to one conclusion. His teeth clenched as he sat there, thinking back from his earliest remembrance, and all along through his life, of the unselfish care which a fine nature had devoted to his family. And this was the end. It was a nightmare. It was impossible, unthinkable.
Robert Nixon, left alone with his hostess, had seldom spent a more uncomfortable season than that first five minutes after Irving’s departure.
Mrs. Bruce stared straight before her, her face wearing an expression of fright and obstinacy.
Robert, with increasing embarrassment, began to feel that he was in the midst of some mysterious crisis, and fervently wished himself in the bosom of his family at the inn.
“I’m sorry to see you look so tired, Mrs. Bruce,” he said, when the long minutes had made the silence impossible.
“Shouldn’t you think he’d come down by this time?” she asked in a strained voice. “You see how it is, Nixie. Betsy rules this household with a rod of iron. Here is Irving upset, won’t eat his breakfast, just because she has taken a notion for an early stroll.”
Robert did not answer, and a cuckoo popping out of its door and remarking that it was half-past nine, made him jump nervously.
An instant later Mrs. Bruce pushed her chair back from the table, unable longer to endure the suspense.
“You’ll excuse me, Nixie, if I see—” she said, and rose. The laces of her silken gown trailed so hurriedly through the door, that Robert had time but to take a step after her.