Again St. George's laugh rang out. He had let her run on—it was music to his ears—that he might later on find some clue on which he could frame a question he had been revolving in his mind ever since he heard her voice in the hall. He would not tell her about Harry—better wait until he could read her thoughts the clearer. If he could discover by some roundabout way that she would still refuse to see him it would be best not to embarrass her with any such request; especially on this her first visit.
“Yes—I'll eat anything and everything you send me, you dear Kate—and many thanks to you, provided you'll come with it—you are the best broth for me. But you haven't answered my question—not all of it. What have YOU been doing since I left?”
“Wondering whether you would forgive me for the rude way in which I left you the last time I saw you,—the night of Mr. Horn's reading, for one thing. I went off with Mr. Willits and never said a word to you. I wrote you a letter telling you how sorry I was, but you never answered it, and that made me more anxious than ever.”
“What foolishness, Kate! I never got it, of course, or you would have heard from me right away. A number of my letters have gone astray of late. But I don't remember a thing about it, except that you walked off with your—” again he hesitated—“with Mr. Willits, which, of course, was the most natural thing for you to do in the world. How is he, by the way?”
Kate drew back her shoulders with that quick movement common to her when some antagonism in her mind preceded her spoken word.
“I don't know—I haven't seen him for some weeks.”
St. George started in his chair: “You haven't! He isn't ill, is he?”
“No, I think not,” she rejoined calmly.
“Oh, then he has gone down to his father's. Yes, I remember he goes quite often,” he ventured.
“No, I think he is still here.” Her gaze was on the window as she spoke, through which could be seen the tops of the trees glistening in the sunlight.