He held out his hand to her with a smile that made his haggard face for moment handsome.
“I will do whatever you wish,” he said, “if you will in return do something I am going to command.”
“What is that?” she asked with a smile.
“Go back home at once. You are here against your father’s wishes, and I am bound in honor to forbid your presence here.”
He had already withdrawn his hand from hers; he dared not trust it to remain there. There was a yearning in his eyes which stirred all the pity, all the tenderness, in her nature for this outcast from love and home and happiness. She tried to take his pathetic command with a laugh, as he had tried to give it. But she failed, as he had done. And so they stood, with only a yard of faded and worn old carpet between them, reading in each other’s eyes the longing, she to comfort and he to caress, while the sunset faded slowly outside, and the old clock ticked on the mantelpiece, and faint sounds of the clattering of cups and spoons came from the kitchen.
“There is some one at the gate,” said he at last. And he crossed to the window and looked out: “Ned Mitchell!”
Olivia started. She was glad Ned had come while she was there, being anxious to note how he met Vernon.
“Come straight in,” called out Vernon from the window.
And Ned came in, with his ponderous walk and keen glance. He nodded to Olivia, and walking straight up to Vernon, examined him attentively.
“So you’re on the sick list, I hear,” he said, not unkindly. “By the look of you I should say you’ll be on the burial list soon if you don’t take care of yourself.”