“Mrs. Widdowson comes here now and then, and we are always very glad to see her. But I can’t help thinking she looks rather unhappy.”
“I’m afraid she does,” assented the other gravely.
“You and I were both at her wedding. It wasn’t very cheerful, was it? I had a disagreeable sense of bad omens all the time. Do you think she is sorry?”
“I’m really afraid she is.”
Rhoda observed the look that accompanied this admission.
“Foolish girl! Why couldn’t she stay with us, and keep her liberty? She doesn’t seem to have made any new friends. Has she spoken to you of any?”
“Only of people she has met here.”
Rhoda yielded—or seemed to yield—to an impulse of frankness. Bending slightly forward, with an anxious expression, she said in confidential tones—
“Can you help to put my mind at rest about Monica? You saw her a week ago. Did she say anything, or give any sign, that might make one really uneasy on her account?”
There was a struggle in Milly before she answered. Rhoda added—