“He’s coming into the drawing-room, Mary,” Claude whispered. “I cannot speak. Pray say something to send him away.”
There was no need for Mary to speak. Glyddyr came up to Claude at once, and took her hand.
“I cannot tell you how grieved I am, Miss Gartram,” he whispered, in a voice full of sympathy. “Your father invited me to call upon him this morning, and when I came I found him lying in his room as you saw.”
He did not explain which way he entered, and for the time no one thought it strange.
Then there was silence, and Claude, after a vain attempt to control her emotion and speech, tried to withdraw her hand, but it was held fast.
“I am on the horns of a dilemma,” continued Glyddyr—“puzzled. I want to show my sympathy, and to be of help, but I cannot see in which way I can be of most service—by staying or by leaving at once.”
“By going, Mr Glyddyr. Pray leave us now. You can indeed do nothing.”
“I will obey your lightest wish,” he said eagerly. “You have only to speak.”
“Then, pray, go.”
He raised the hand he held to his lips, and pressed it long and tenderly, till it was hastily withdrawn, and then, bowing only to Mary, he went quickly from the room.