"Then don't say it," says Mrs. Arlington, coloring deeply.
"I won't. To return to our subject: the country is just now new to you, perhaps. After a while you will again pine for society."
"I do not think so. I have seen a good deal of the world in my time, but never gained anything from it except—sorrow."
She sighs heavily; again the shadow darkens her face and dims the beauty of her eyes.
"It must have caused you great grief losing your husband so young," says Cyril, gently, hardly knowing what to say.
"No, his death had nothing to do with the trouble of which I am thinking," replies Mrs. Arlington, with curious haste, a quick frown overshadowing her brow. Her fingers meet and clasp each other closely.
Cyril is silent, being oppressed with another growing conviction which completely routs the first and leads him to believe the dead and gone Arlington a miserable brute, deserving of hanging at the very least. This conviction, unlike the first, carries consolation with it. "I am sorry you would not let my mother call on you," he says, presently.
"Did Sir Guy say I would not see her?" asks she, with some anxiety. "I hope he did not represent me as having received her kind message with ingratitude."
"No, he merely said you wished to see no one."
"He said the truth. But then there are ways of saying things, and I should not like to appear rude. I certainly do not wish to see any one, but for all that I should not like to offend your mother."