"You must be quiet and have more confidence in"—Agnes heard Arbuthnot say; and then, prompted by some desperate desire to hear no more, and to avoid being seen, she spoke to her maid.
"Marie," she said, "we will cross the street."
But when they had crossed the street some chill in the night air seemed to have struck her, and she began to shiver so that Marie looked at her in some affright.
"Madame is cold," she said. "Is it possible that madame has a chill?"
"I am afraid so," her mistress replied, turning about hurriedly. "I will not make the visit. I will return home."
A few minutes later, Mrs. Merriam, who had settled her small figure comfortably in a large arm-chair by the fire, and prepared to spend the rest of the evening with a new book, looked up from its first chapter in amazement, as her niece entered the room.
"Agnes!" she exclaimed. "What has happened! Are you ill? Why, child! you are as white as a lily."
It was true that Mrs. Sylvestre's fair face had lost all trace of its always delicate color, and that her hands trembled as she drew off her gloves.
"I began—suddenly—to feel so cold," she said, "that I thought it better to come back."
Mrs. Merriam rose anxiously.