Again the doctor kept silence. Despite her assumed courage and determined air, his experienced eye caught beneath it all the shrinking helplessness of the woman.
"Then I, too, have reached a sudden resolve," he said in a manner almost professional in its precision. "You cannot and shall not go alone."
"Oh, but Lucy and I can get along together," she exclaimed with nervous haste. "There is no one we could take but Martha, and she is too old. Besides she must look after the house while we are away."
"No; Martha will not do. No woman will do. I know Paris and its life; it is not the place for two women to live in alone, especially so pretty and light-hearted a woman as Lucy."
"I am not afraid."
"No, but I am," he answered in a softened voice, "very much afraid." It was no longer the physician who spoke, but the friend.
"Of what?"
"Of a dozen things you do not understand, and cannot until you encounter them," he replied, smoothing her hand tenderly.
"Yes, but it cannot be helped. There is no one to go with us." This came with some positiveness, yet with a note of impatience in her voice.
"Yes, there is," he answered gently.