“Yes,” she said, looking wistfully in his eyes, “quite a romance, only it is all true, my dear. Now, will you come in?”
He hesitated for a moment, and then walked right in to the parlour, and she followed him, wiping her red eyes with her handkerchief.
“You will sit down?” she said, drawing forward an elbow-chair.
He took it from her and placed it so that she could sit down, while he took another.
“No,” she said softly, “I will stand. Mr Linnell, please sit down.”
He smiled and looked at her, full of expectancy, while she stood wringing her handkerchief, and puckering up her forehead, her lips parted, and an eager look of pride in her eyes as she gazed at him.
“It is very good of you to come,” she faltered. “I will say what I have to say directly, but I am very weak, my dear—I—I beg your pardon, Mr Linnell. Don’t—don’t think me too familiar. You are not angry with me for loving you?”
“How can I be angry?” he said quickly. “I am surprised.”
“You need not be,” she said. “You would not be, if you knew more of human nature than you do. Mr Richard Linnell, it is in a woman’s nature to desire to cling to and love something. Why should you be surprised that a poor lonely woman like me should love—as a son—the handsomest and truest gentleman we have in Saltinville?”
“It is fortunate for me that we meet but seldom, Miss Clode,” said Richard, smiling, “if you hold me in such estimation as this.”