“They care a great deal more than they will admit to me,” she said to him, when chance left them together a few minutes later, as Tom and Rupert were showing Latimer some books. “They are afraid of making me unhappy by letting me know how serious it will be if everything is lost. They care too much for me—but I care for them, and if I could do anything—or go to anyone——”
He looked into her eyes through a curious moment of silence.
“It was not all jest,” he said after it, “what I said just now. I am a man who has words, and words sometimes are of use. I am going to give you my words—for what they are worth.”
“We shall feel very rich,” she answered, and her simple directness might have been addressed to a friend of years’ standing. It was a great charm, this sweet acceptance of any kindness. “But I thought you were going away in a few days?”
“Yes. But I shall come back, and I shall try to set the ball rolling before I go.”
She glanced at Latimer across the room.
“Mr. Latimer—” she hesitated; “do you think he does not mind that—that the claim means so much for us? I was afraid. He looked at me so seriously——”
“He looked at you a great deal,” interposed Baird, quickly. “He could not help it. I am glad to have this opportunity to tell you—something. You are very like—very like—someone he loved deeply—someone who died years ago. You must forgive him. It was almost a shock to him to come face to face with you.”
“Ah!” softly. “Someone who died years ago!” She lifted Margery’s eyes and let them rest upon Baird’s face. “It must be very strange—it must be almost awful—to find yourself near a person very like someone you have loved—who died years ago.”
“Yes,” he answered. “Yes—awful. That is the word.”