"Crocodile tears!" thought Page. "It is more than likely that they have everything between them.—Certainly, I should have wished to come," he said aloud.
"Then—then," began Mildred, making an effort, "my sister wanted your advice—she thought you would know best—Mr. Van Tassel trusted you—Forgive me, but we have had such a shock"—she tried vainly to go on, once, twice, then with a gesture turned and left the room.
The visitor moved to a window, and looked out through a crack of the blind.
"I'm sorry they think it necessary to go through this sort of thing," he thought cynically. "Now I suppose she will send the other one; and if that was a preface!" A sound behind him caused him to set his teeth, and turn about with the coldest, blankest expression he could assume. His eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light now, and he saw a straight slight girl in black, standing and regarding him with the saddest, loveliest countenance he had ever looked upon. Her large eyes had shed all their tears, and her delicate lips had never smiled. Her rippled brown hair framed a colorless face, and her effect was less pathetic than awe-inspiring in its pure unconscious dignity.
"This is Mr. Page?" she said, advancing and offering a hand which the young man took mechanically. "It was kind of you to come promptly. I felt that I must see you and you only, about—about Mr. Van Tassel's son."
She spoke in an even, emotionless voice, but Page noted a faint trembling of her lips at the mention of Jack.
"You are the nearest relative, and you can best decide what should be done."
Page was in all the confusion incident upon intense revulsion of feeling. He felt that he had not yet full command of his ideas; but the spontaneous desire to help this exquisite young creature, to let neither himself nor any one else wound her further, constituted his ruling passion for the moment.
"You have sent no word to Jack as yet?"
"No. As soon as your telegram came I decided to wait for you."