It was a significant fact she said nothing about Camilla.
Caroline went into her sitting-room, brought out pen and ink and foolscap, dictionaries and Latin grammar; but when she sat down to work, her usual pleasure and eagerness had flown.
She could hear Dennis whispering in the next room and one or the other child putting a pertinent remark in a very unsleepy voice; but she knew them well now. By the time she had changed her dress and had gone downstairs, both little voices would be hushed in sleep.
Camilla's few words to her just as they parted haunted her, but instead of that glow of satisfaction which would surely have come had they been spoken under other circumstances, they brought a renewed touch of heartache.
After a while she put away her books and writing.
"Assuredly," she said to herself, "love goes hand-in-hand with sorrow. When I had no one to love, nothing to care for, nobody to make me anxious, I never had tears in my eyes as I have them now. If only tears would do some good! But how can I help her? what can I do? I have the sort of feeling that I ought to do something, but what—what?"
She was still standing by the window, looking at the beautiful evening sky, when a maid came into the room softly.
"If you please, miss," she said, "would you come downstairs and see Mr. Haverford? He says he would like to speak to you."
Caroline whipped round from the window.
"Mr. Haverford! He was not expected, and both Mr. and Mrs. Brenton are out."