‘Yes—a very long time.’
‘You couldn’t come on Sunday?’
‘I found my father very ill. I didn’t like to leave home till to-day.’
‘Your father ill?—You said nothing of it in your letter.’
‘No—I didn’t like to—with the other things.’
A singular delicacy this; Tarrant understood it, and looked at her thoughtfully. Again she was examining the room with hurried glance; upon him her eyes did not turn. He asked questions about Mr. Lord. Nancy could not explain the nature of his illness; he had spoken of gout, but she feared it must be something worse; the change in him since she went away was incredible and most alarming. This she said in short, quick sentences, her voice low. Tarrant thought to himself that in her too, a very short time had made a very notable change; he tried to read its significance, but could reach no certainty.
‘I’m sorry to hear all this—very sorry. You must tell me more about your father. Take off your hat, dear, and your gloves.’
Her gloves she removed first, and laid them on her lap; Tarrant took them away. Then her hat; this too he placed on the table. Having done so, he softly touched the plaits of her hair. And, for the first time, Nancy looked up at him.
‘Are you glad to see me?’ she asked, in a voice that seemed subdued by doubt of the answer.
‘I am—very glad.’