He leaned forward the closer: he loved this girl next best to Harry. Her sorrows were his own. Was it all coming out as he had hoped and prayed for? He could hardly restrain himself in his eagerness.
“Did you miss anybody else, Kate?” There was a peculiar tenderness in his voice.
She did not raise her head nor did she answer. St. George waited and repeated the question, Slipping his hand over hers, as he spoke.
“It was the loneliness, Uncle George,” she replied, evading his inference. “I tried to forget it all, and I threw open our house and gave parties and dances—hardly a week but there has been something going on—but nothing did any good. I have been—yes—wretchedly unhappy and—No, it will only distress you to hear it—don't let's talk any more about it. I won't let you go away again. I'll go away with you if you don't get better soon, anywhere you say. We'll go down to the White Sulphur—Yes—we'll go there. The air is so bracing—it wouldn't be a week before all the color would come back to your cheeks and you be as strong as ever.”
He was not listening. His mind was framing a question—one he must ask without committing himself or her. He was running a parallel, really—reading her heart by a flank movement.
“Kate, dear?” He had regained his position although he still kept hold of her hand.
“Yes, Uncle George.”
“Did you write to Harry, as I asked you?”
“No, it wouldn't have done any good. I have had troubles enough of my own without adding any to his.”
“Were you afraid he would not answer it?”