Myra took the hand from her lips and held it fast while she tried to search her cousin's face. But the gathering dusk had mounted from the level of the street to that of the upper room, and it baffled the eye-questioning.
"Connie Elliott! I more than half believe"—She stopped abruptly, as if there had been some dumb protest of the imprisoned hand, and then went on with a swift change from accusation to gentle reproach. "I believe you have only just begun to tell me your troubles,—and I've been with you all day! What are some more of them?"
"I have told you the worst of them,—or at least that part of them which makes it impossible for me to go away. But there is another reason why I ought to stay."
"Is that one namable, too?"
"Yes; but perhaps you won't understand. And you will be sure to tell me it isn't proper. I think one of Mr. Lansdale's few pleasures is his coming here."
"Few remaining pleasures, you would say, if you were not too tender-hearted. Is it wise, Connie?"
"Why not?—if it is a comfort to him?"
Myra hesitated, not because she had nothing to say, but because she knew not how to say the thing demanded.
"You haven't given me leave to be quite frank with you, Connie. But it seems to me that your kindness in this case is—is mistaken kindness."