All this time the pale, almost ghostly-looking hand was playing about in the little opening, and indicating by its nervous action that something was passing in the ordinarily calm mind of its owner.
“Renée, my child,” he said at last, “I can hear that you are in trouble.”
There was no reply for a few moments, and then she said softly: “Yes, dear uncle.”
“I do not ask you for your confidence,” he said, “for if it is some trouble between you and your husband it should be sacred. I dreaded this,” he muttered to himself. “Gertrude, my child, I would not, if I could help it, do anything to encourage you to act in disobedience to your parents’ wishes, but be careful how you enter on this proposed alliance. I like it not, I like it not.”
Gertrude did not answer, only stole to the opening, and pressed her warm fresh lips to the cold white hand. Then the young people took their leave, and the yellow-looking house in Wimpole Street resumed its wonted aspect of gloom.
Volume Two—Chapter Seven.
Brought to a Double Head.
“Ah, my dearest boy!” cried Lady Millet, an evening or two later; “I did not expect you.”