Apparently frightened and painfully ill at ease, she rose and started to put on her coat. Gordon eyed her with a glance much like the look that a snake might cast upon some shrinking, terrified rabbit.
"Didn't care for the climate of Europe?" he said abruptly.
The woman turned a shade paler, and her hands trembled more violently still. "I suppose I oughtn't to have come back," she said, in a low voice, "but I couldn't stay. Everything was different from what I'd expected; everything had changed so; and I got homesick; I had to come back, that was all there was to it."
"Although," said Gordon lightly, "your return involved, of course, a little matter of breaking your contract with me; going back absolutely upon your pledged word."
The woman flushed scarlet. "Well," she said half-defiantly, "in a way I did, but I can't see that it makes any difference to you. I'm living here quietly, seeing no one, having nothing to do with any one, I should think it was all the same to you."
"That," answered Gordon evenly, "I imagine should have been left for me to decide. However, we needn't discuss it now. You're here, evidently, and taking care of my friend Lynch. I suppose, incidentally, of course your coming back had nothing to do with him."
The woman's eyes did not meet his. "Of course not," she lied glibly. "Why should you think such a thing?"
The governor raised his eyebrows. "Oh, it simply crossed my mind," he said indifferently; "seeing you here, taking care of him, I suppose. He's really pretty sick, is he?"
"Is he?" echoed the woman. "I should say he was. He's so weak; that's the trouble. He can hardly lift a finger. But he'll get well; it's just a question of rest, and decent care; that's all."
Gordon rose abruptly. "Well," he said, "I guess I'll go up and see him. Which room is he in?"