“I didn’t sleep at all, and I’m used to winds, too,” said Claire.
“It got me up at daylight,” Smythe went on. “It didn’t look like much of a day for riding, but I got nervous sitting around listening to my good landlady––one of the young Martins is threatened with something or other––and started out to see how the landscape had been changed. There are trees down everywhere, and––” He paused. “What are you doing this morning, Miss Gaylord?” he asked, very casually.
She had been silent, watching him.
“We were going shooting, but we’ve been waiting to see if the weather would change.”
“Then you haven’t been out?”
“Only on the veranda for a minute.”
“Let’s take a brisk walk, then. It’ll do you good––warm you up a little.”
“Yes,” she said weakly.
She went to her room for her hat, and pinning it on before the mirror, started at sight of her face, which had grown very white. She was almost incapable of thought. The hatpin slipped from her cold fingers, and fell to the floor. She stared at it strangely before stooping to pick it up. How could she bear to hear what Smythe had come to tell her! But it was good of him to wait until he could tell her alone.