Presently another step sounded on the stairs, wavered a moment and then moved past the threshold of the study. Darrow got up and walked into the hall, which was still unlighted. In the dimness he saw Sophy Viner standing by the hall door in her hat and jacket. She stopped at sight of him, her hand on the door-bolt, and they stood for a second without speaking.
“Have you seen Effie?” she suddenly asked. “She went out to meet you.”
“She did meet me, just now, in the court. She’s gone on to join her brother.”
Darrow spoke as naturally as he could, but his voice sounded to his own ears like an amateur actor’s in a “light” part.
Miss Viner, without answering, drew back the bolt. He watched her in silence as the door swung open; then he said: “She has her nurse with her. She won’t be long.”
She stood irresolute, and he added: “I was writing in there—won’t you come and have a little talk? Every one’s out.”
The last words struck him as not well-chosen, but there was no time to choose. She paused a second longer and then crossed the threshold of the study. At luncheon she had sat with her back to the window, and beyond noting that she had grown a little thinner, and had less colour and vivacity, he had seen no change in her; but now, as the lamplight fell on her face, its whiteness startled him.
“Poor thing ... poor thing ... what in heaven’s name can she suppose?” he wondered.
“Do sit down—I want to talk to you,” he said and pushed a chair toward her.
She did not seem to see it, or, if she did, she deliberately chose another seat. He came back to his own chair and leaned his elbows on the blotter. She faced him from the farther side of the table.