Anice was silent too. After luncheon, however, she went into a small conservatory adjoining the room, and before Grace took his departure, she called him to her.
“It is very strange that you did not tell us last night,” she said; “why did you not?”
“It was Derrick's forethought for you,” he answered. “He was afraid that the story would alarm you, and as I agreed with him that it might, I remained silent. I might as well have spoken, it appears.”
“He thought it would frighten me?” she said.
“Yes.”
“Has this accident made him ill?”
“No, not ill, though the fracture is a very painful and inconvenient one.”
“I am very sorry; please tell him so. And, Mr. Grace, when he feels able to come here, I have something to say to him.”
Derrick marched into the Barholm parlor that very night with his arm in splints and bandages.
It was a specially pleasant and homelike evening to him; Mrs. Barholm's gentle heart went out to the handsome invalid. She had never had a son of her own, though it must be confessed she had yearned for one, strong and deep as was her affection for her girl.