They drove on, a little closer together mentally than they had ever been before. Grisel had been very sweet, very womanly, for that short moment, and she, for her part, had, for a brief time, been able to regard him less as the old man she was going to marry for his money, than as a kind and companionable contemporary.
Meantime Mrs. Walbridge had another guest. She had gone up to her writing room, and was working on her new book, when Jessie announced that Mr. Crichell was in the young ladies' room.
"Mr. Crichell?"
"Yes, m'm, and he's in a great hurry."
"Didn't he ask for master?"
"No, m'm," the girl returned with decision, "he asked for you, quite partic'lar, m'm."
It struck Mrs. Walbridge as odd that Crichell should have asked for her, for she hardly knew him. But she smoothed her hair and turned down her sleeve, calling out to Jessie as she went to bring up some more tea.
"Not for me, Mrs. Walbridge," Crichell began, hearing her last words. "No tea, thanks. I've come on a—very unpleasant errand."
She saw that he was very much disturbed, his sleek face being blurred by queer little dull red patches. Sitting down by the fire she motioned him to do the same. But he remained standing, his short legs far apart, his hands behind his back.