Mr. Moore took her hand; all the goodness of his nature came into his long narrow face, making it lovely in its sympathy as he heard her appeal. She was clinging to him—she had put her other hand on his arm. "You will stay?" she repeated urgently.
"If I can be of any use to you, most certainly I will stay."
Upon hearing this, she made an effort to recover herself, to speak more coherently. "I shall need your advice—there are so many things I must decide about. Mr. Winthrop will tell you—but why should I leave it to him? I will tell you myself. My husband has gone north, he is going abroad again. You will understand—it was so sudden. I did not know—" She made another effort to steady her voice. "If you will stay with me for a day or two, I will send over to Gracias for anything you may need."
"I will stay gladly, Mrs. Harold."
"Oh, you are good! But I always knew you were. And now for a few minutes—if you will excuse me—I have only just heard it—I will come back soon." And with swift step she hastened from the room.
Mr. Moore, his face full of sympathy, turned to Winthrop.
But Evert Winthrop's expression showed only anger; he walked off, with his back turned, and made no reply.
"Is it true, then?" said Mr. Moore, infinite regret in his mild tones.
Winthrop was standing at the window, he bit his lips with impatience; he was in no mood for what he would have called "the usual platitudes," and especially platitudes about Lansing Harold.
It could not be denied that Mr. Moore's conversation often contained sentences that were very usual.