The dress of mourning became her well; it heightened her always noticeable air of refinement, and would have constrained to a reverential tenderness even had not Hilliard naturally checked himself from any bolder demonstration of joy. She spoke in a low, soft voice, seldom raised her eyes, and manifested a new gentleness very touching to Hilliard, though at the same time, and he knew not how or why, it did not answer to his desire. A midday meal was in readiness for her; she pretended to eat, but in reality scarce touched the food.
"You must taste old Narramore's port wine," said her entertainer. "The fellow actually sent a couple of dozen."
She was not to be persuaded; her refusal puzzled and annoyed Hilliard, and there followed a long silence. Indeed, it surprised him to find how little they could say to each other to-day. An unknown restraint had come between them.
"Well," he exclaimed at length, "I wrote to Patty, and she answered."
"May I see the letter?"
"Of course. Here it is."
Eve read it, and smiled with pleasure.
"Doesn't she write nicely! Poor girl!"
"Why have you taken so to commiserating her all at once?" Hilliard asked. "She's no worse off than she ever was. Rather better, I think."
"Life isn't the same for her since she was in Paris," said Eve, with peculiar softness.