“Oh, Mr. Merritt, how can I, under present circumstances? I have no wish to go out. Although I have done no wrong, I feel as if I were a social pariah.”
“That is morbid—very morbid! The story of your wrongs is not known at all beyond the precincts of the judicial chambers; and even if it were known, it would only invest you with a deeper interest, that would hold much admiration and no censure whatever.”
“I could not tolerate such a personal interest, Mr. Merritt,” replied Roma.
“Then, my dear, if you will make a hermit of yourself, would not your country house be a more attractive abode than a suit of apartments in a crowded flat?”
“Ah! you are anxious to get rid of me, Mr. Merritt,” said Roma archly.
“You know better than that; but the truth is, I am off for San Francisco, on sudden and imperative business, and must go by the early train to-morrow morning, and I hate to leave you here alone. If you will not go out I would much rather know that you were with your old neighbors at Goblin Hall.”
Roma glanced at Madame Marguerite, whose chair had been wheeled to one of the back windows, through which she was looking out upon the little piece of woods left standing at some little distance from the house. She seemed absorbed in thought, and gazing rather on vacancy than on the limited landscape before her.
“Ah! I see—I see,” sighed the lawyer. “You are making yourself a martyr to that poor little soul! Why not send her to the Providence Hospital?” he inquired, lowering his voice to a tone inaudible to any ears beyond Roma’s.
“Because it would break her heart. Besides, when I ‘introspect’—to use your own words, Mr. Merritt—I find that it gives me so much happiness to make her comfortable that there is no merit at all in my serving her; and, of course, not the least suggestion of self-sacrifice,” replied Roma in the same low key.
“Well, well, my dear, as you will. I am going to church at St. John’s for the Christmas service. You, I suppose, cannot leave your invalid. Good-morning. Shall see you again before I leave.”