Richard’s heart gave one heavy painful throb as he turned for an instant at the door.
Mrs Lane laid her hand upon his arm as soon as they were alone, and once more looked searchingly into his face.
“I ought not to do this,” she said, pitifully. “You’re almost a stranger; but it is giving her what she has so little of—pleasure; more, it is like giving her life. You know—you see how ill she is?”
“Poor child, yes,” said Richard.
“Child!”
“Yes,” said Richard, gravely. “I have always looked upon her as a child—or, at least, as a young, innocent girl. Mrs Lane, I tell you frankly, for I think I can read your feelings—every look, every attention of mine towards that poor girl has been the result of pity. If you could read me, I think you would never suspect me of trifling.”
“I am ready to trust you,” she said. “You will not be late. The night air would be dangerous for her—hush!”
“I’m ready!” exclaimed Netta, joyfully.
As she appeared framed in the doorway of the inner room, her dark hair cast back, eyes sparkling, and the flush as of health upon her cheeks, and lips parted to show her pure white teeth, Richard’s heart gave another painful throb, and he thought of Frank Pratt’s words, for it was no child that stood before him, but a very beautiful woman.
“You’ll be back before dark, my darling?” said Mrs Lane, tenderly.