Gertrude turned ghastly pale, and looked down at her soft, light dress, which was splashed and stained in great patches with the wine.
“Mrs Hampton!”
“What a stupid thing to say, my dear,” cried the old lady excitedly. “Don’t take any notice of it. There, let’s go to dinner.”
That meal was not a success, for every one seemed troubled and nervous, one infecting the other, but no allusion was made to the absentee, till they were seated alone over dessert, when, as the old lawyer sipped his claret, he said suddenly:
“You are right. I’ve been thinking it over. Saul Harrington’s invitation was too much for him. He repented of his refusal, and has gone off after him.”
“Yes,” said Mrs Hampton, “that’s it.”
Gertrude was silent. Her thoughts seemed to enchain the power of speech.
“Don’t look so troubled about it, my dear. He is a bachelor yet, and is making use of his last few days or weeks of freedom. We shall be having a letter from him soon. Con—bless that dog! Are you going to keep him in the house all night, my dear?”
“I did mean to, Mr Hampton,” said Gertrude, as a low, piteous, moan-like howl came from the hall.
“Like my impudence to speak,” muttered the old lawyer; “seemed to think I was at home.”