“Breakfast?” he said quietly. “I shall not have any. Yes,” he added hastily; “bring a cup of tea, Liza—no sugar, and a little dry toast.”
A pang shot through Madelaine’s heart, and for a few moments she strove vainly to speak.
“It is I, Mr Vine,” she faltered at last in a voice she did not recognise as her own.
“Madelaine, my child!” he cried, starting and dropping his pencil as he turned. “How rude of me! so intent upon this beautiful preparation of mine here. Very, very glad to see you,” he continued, as he took her hands in his. “How is your father this morning?”
“I—I have not seen him this morning,” faltered Madelaine, as she gazed upon the pale, lined face before her, to note the change thereon, in spite of the unnatural calmness which the old man had assumed, “I—I came on at once, as soon as I had heard.”
He drew in a long breath as if her words were cutting him. Then raising her hands to his lips he kissed them tenderly.
“Like you,” he said gently, “like you, my child. There, I have nothing to say, nothing to hear.”
“But dear Mr Vine,” cried Madelaine, as she clung to him, and her tears fell fast, “I am sure—”
He smiled down at her lovingly, as he kissed her hand again.
“Spare me, my child,” he said. “Never mention her name again.”