Ludovic opened the door, stumbled on the threshold, then awkwardly readjusted his crutch and shut the library door with a hasty bang.
He had almost fallen over Rosamund Grantham, crouching outside the door.
She raised a deeply flushed face, and he looked gravely down at her. He was shocked only at the unchildlike misery and exhaustion that showed in her dark-circled eyes.
“Let me help you up from the floor,” he said after a moment, as though her position were the most usual one for a guest to select.
She let him take her hand and raise her from the floor, and then followed him slowly across the hall into a small morning-room.
Ludovic supposed that he ought to say: “Listening at doors is dishonourable,” but the sense of courtesy, apparently less in abeyance than where Bertha Tregaskis was concerned, revolted, and he moreover felt convinced that Rosamund was as well aware as himself of the breach she had committed.
Presently she said in a low voice:
“I know it is dreadful to listen at doors. I have never done it before, but I felt certain—certain—that they would try and arrange something or other without telling me—perhaps separate me and Francie or something; there’s nobody to understand anything, and I don’t know what is going to happen to us.”
“They can’t separate you and your sister,” said Ludovic earnestly; “no one could do that.”
“Then what are they settling in there, all by themselves? I know they’re talking about us, because I could hear a little—but only a very little—that was the worst of it.”