Two or three weeks elapsed before she could nerve herself sufficiently to admit Mr. Haveloc; but, at last, fearing that he might leave the neighbourhood without her seeing him, she appointed him to come.
Mr. Lindsay was with her in the drawing-room; she looked dreadfully ill, and her hand was as cold as ice. Mr. Haveloc took a chair beside her, and in vain tried to speak. There was something so absolute in her bereavement, that he was dumb before her; he felt the influence, for the first time, of that grief that "makes its owner great."
It fell to Mr. Lindsay to sustain the conversation.
"So you have not parted with your yacht yet, Mr. Haveloc," he said, "we shall lose a pretty object when she leaves this part of the coast."
"No; I had nearly an opportunity of getting rid of her lately," said Mr. Haveloc, "I thought Lord Raymond would have—"
And he stopped suddenly, remembering that Lord Raymond had come to him expressly to attend Aveline's funeral. "Ay—you find, like many other people, that it is much easier to purchase a toy than to part with it."
"Exactly."
"So many people want to sell, and so few care to buy," continued Mr. Lindsay.
"That is just the case."
"Do you know," said Mr. Lindsay, turning to Mrs. Fitzpatrick, as if it was a subject in which she must take a deep interest; "I feel sure we shall have a very fine autumn!"