Madelaine sighed, and with her brow wrinkled by the lines of care, she stood watching the old man as he bent over his microscope once more, and then softly left the room.
“Well?” said Uncle Luke eagerly, as she joined him in the hall. “What does he say?”
“That he will not see her. That he could not trust himself to meet her now.”
“Ah!”
Madelaine started, and turned sharply round as a piteous wail fell upon her ears.
Aunt Marguerite was standing within the dining-room door, wringing her hands, and looking wild and strange.
“I can’t bear it,” she cried. “I can’t bear it. He thinks it is my fault. Go in and tell him, Luke. He must not, he shall not blame me.”
“Let him alone for a bit,” said Luke, coldly.
“But he thinks it is all my fault. I want to tell him—I want him to know that it is no fault of mine.”
“Can’t convince him of impossibilities,” said Uncle Luke coldly.