Alden Lytton drank his coffee, remarking, with a smile, that it was very, very strong, in fact quite bitter in its strength.
And when he had finished it he pushed the cup away, saying that it had quite satisfied him and deprived him of the inclination to take anything else.
As he said this he looked at his companion, and noticed for the first time the ghastliness of her countenance.
"Mrs. Grey, are you ill?" he inquired, in some alarm.
"No; only fatigued from that railway journey. The train always shakes me into a jelly," she answered, shivering.
"How very delicate you are, poor child! It is a great pity you should ever be called to bear any of the roughness of life. And when my dear Emma and I have a home together we must take care to shield you from all that," he said.
And then he sank into a sudden silence, while she watched him closely.
"Will you not take anything?" she inquired.
"No, thank you. That coffee was no doubt very fine; but it was a bitter draught, and it has taken away my appetite for anything else," he answered, with a smile and a half-suppressed yawn.
"Are you not well?" she next inquired.