She stopped and looked at him, with the most pathetic look that can be seen on a child’s face, that of bewilderment at pain.
“Go on,” said Ludovic in a low voice.
“Cousin Bertie said we could go in and see her afterwards, but I wouldn’t”—she shuddered—“I thought it would frighten Francie so. And we didn’t go to the funeral, either. Were you there?” she asked suddenly.
“No. I only came back from Paris yesterday,” he told her gently.
“Cousin Bertie went. She was very kind, and made us go in the garden, and told us a lot of things about heaven, and mother being quite well again now and happy, and somehow it didn’t all seem so bad then. But now we’re going away, and—and there’s nobody to understand. Except you,” she added mournfully.
“Haven’t you any relations at all?”
“No. Only Cousin Bertie. She is very kind, and she is taking us to live with her—but oh, she doesn’t understand!”
The despair in Rosamund’s voice seemed to Ludovic Argent to sum up all the inadequacy that he had felt in Bertha Tregaskis. She was very kind—she was taking the orphans to live with her—but she would never “understand.”
He felt her lack of understanding to be yet more apparent when Mrs. Tregaskis called Rosamund and Frances back to the library, just as Frances timidly pushed open the French window of the room where he stood with Rosamund.
An imploring look from Rosamund made him follow them quickly into the library.