Remembering his uncle’s wooden countenance, and the blank look with which he listened to anything he didn’t want to hear, Bayre could quite understand this.
He rose to go with a grave face.
“It’s an unhappy business,” said he. “I wish I could do anything. If I can, will you let me know?”
She rose too, with a strange look of unsatisfied longing in her great eyes.
“You are very good, very kind,” said she. And then she paused. “I like to think of your kindness, and of that of those two others. You must forgive me for running away; there were some things I couldn’t bear.”
Bayre felt the blood rising to his face.
“You mean—Southerley?” he said in a very low voice.
She made an impatient gesture.
“Oh, no, no, no, I don’t mean anything,” she said restlessly. “What should Mr Southerley matter to me, a married woman? You say strange things, Mr Bayre.”
He smiled at her pretty petulance.