Though she constantly looked at her miniature, and moved the brushes and little saucers on the table, her hearing was preternaturally sharpened, as it was in reality the barely audible sound of the distant front door which told her that Wingfield was gone. Instinctively she looked towards the door of her own room, hesitated, then rose suddenly, and went out with a quick, nervous step, and a determined look in her face. Without stopping to consider what she should say, she descended to the library.
Katharine looked up with an expression of annoyance as her mother entered.
“He’s gone, then?” said Mrs. Lauderdale, interrogatively.
“Yes. He’s just gone,” answered Katharine, in a voice that did not promise confidence.
“What did you tell him, dear?”
Mrs. Lauderdale sat down beside her daughter. The smile she put on was as unnatural as the endearing tone, and Katharine observed it. She suffered in the artificiality which had developed in her mother of late, so unlike the dignified personality which she had been used to love.
“Really, mother, I can’t repeat the conversation. I couldn’t if I wished to. What difference does it make what I said, since he’s gone? I told you what I should say. Well—I’ve said it.”
“You’ve sent him away for good—just like that?”
“I’ve told him the plain truth, and he’s gone. He won’t come back—unless he wants to see you,” she added, rather bitterly. “I don’t think he will, though. You’ve not exactly helped him to be happy.”
“Katharine!” There was an injured protest in the tone.