Page soon took his leave, and until the day after the funeral did not again have opportunity to speak with the young widow. Then she sent for him and he went upstairs to the gay and delicate boudoir which Richard Van Tassel had furnished for his young wife, whose black gown to-day made the one dark spot amid its luxury.
She looked precisely the same as on the occasion of their first meeting except that now, by daylight, Page could see more distinctly her patient, marble beauty.
"I could not let you go East without thanking you," she said, greeting him gravely. "You have been very kind, and a great help to us."
The young man bowed, and murmured a polite platitude. He could think of nothing to say to her.
"Do you—I suppose you do expect your cousin to return home immediately."
"Yes. I think he will come."
"One thing which I wanted to say to you this morning is that my sister and I are going immediately to California to spend the winter. You will meet your cousin, very likely, upon his arrival?"
Page bowed.
"Will you kindly tell him that the house here is ready for him, that we shall not return to it"—Mrs. Van Tassel's even, formal utterance broke, and she suddenly averted her head. "Poor Jack!" she exclaimed. "It will make him suffer afresh to come back here, and who can comfort him? It is the best I can do, though," she added suddenly, turning again toward Page. "You know there is not one person save Mildred to whom I can speak of all this, and it is wrong to dwell upon sad and humiliating subjects with a bright young girl."
She looked scarcely older than Mildred herself, Page thought, but he eagerly offered himself as a confidant.