Mallard knit his brows, and now scowled at her askance, now looked away. His visage was profoundly troubled. There was silence for some moments. Cecily's eyes wandered unconsciously over the paintings and other objects about her.
"You have come to ask me if I know where he is?"
She failed in her attempt to reply.
"I am sorry that I can't tell you. I know nothing of him. But perhaps Mrs. Baske does. You know their address?"
"I didn't come for that," she answered, with decision, her features working painfully. "It is not my part to seek for him."
"Then how can I help you?" Mallard asked, still gruffly, but with more evidence of the feeling that his tone disguised.
"You can't help me, Mr. Mallard. How could any one help me? I was utterly alone, and I wanted to hear a friend's voice."
"That is only natural. It is impossible for you to remain alone. You don't feel able to go to Mrs. Baske?"
She shook her head.
"But your aunt will come? You have written to her?"