His brother took his hand sharply off his arm and turned away. He thought it was a lie; but he had no means of extracting the truth. He was more interested in Miss Lane than the younger guessed, more anxious for the interview he was about to seek with the prim little girl than he had ever been before about a meeting with a woman.
He had to keep his impatience in check until the funeral was over; but on the very day after, the young baronet went up to town and to the address Mrs. Mansfield had given him.
“Is Miss Lane at home?” he asked of the servant who opened the door. “Ask if she will see Sir George Braithwaite,” he added, as the girl did not answer.
She left him in the hall while she went up-stairs, and then returned and asked him to walk up. And in the sitting-room into which he was shown sat Miss Lane—but not the downcast little creature of Garstone Vicarage days—a little, smiling fairy in cream-colored muslin, with a rose at her throat, and a small hand put out in welcome. After the first greetings, her glance fell on his deep hatband.
“My father is dead,” said he.
She looked grave and sorry at once, but not so much surprised as if the fact of his illness had been unknown to her.
“You had heard of his accident?”
“Yes, I saw it in the papers,” she answered, blushing, and not looking at him.
He looked at her searchingly. Who could have told her all about it but Harry?
“Were they all there when he died?” she asked, softly.