“I am sorry,” Wingrave said coldly, “to inflict this visit upon you. If you are alone, and afraid to ask me in, we can talk here.”
Her cheeks became as flushed as a moment before they had been pale. She looked at him reproachfully, and, standing on one side to let him pass, closed the door behind him. Then she led the way into her sitting room.
“I am glad that you have come to see me,” she said. “Won’t you sit down?”
He ignored her invitation, and stood looking around him. There was a noticeable change in the little room. There were no flowers, some of the ornaments and the silver trifles from her table were missing. The place seemed to have been swept bare of everything, except the necessary furniture. Then he looked at her. She was perceptibly thinner, and there were black rings under her eyes.
“Where is Mrs. Tresfarwin?” he asked.
“In Cornwall,” she answered.
“Why?”
“I could not afford to keep her here any longer.”
“What are you doing for a living—painting still?”
She shook her head a little piteously.