Millicent stood listening till the steps had died away, and then sat down at the writing-table.
“Poor boy!” she said softly, as she passed her hand over her eyes, “I am so sorry.”
She laid down the pen, and ran over her conduct—all that she had said and done since her first meeting with the curate; but ended by shaking her head, and declaring to herself that she could find nothing in her behaviour to call for blame.
“No,” she said, rising from the table, after writing a few lines which she tore up, “I must not write to him; the wound must be left to time.”
A double knock announced a visitor, and directly after Thisbe King, the maid, ushered in Sir Gordon, who, in addition to his customary dress, wore—what was very unusual for him—a flower in his button-hole, which, with a great show of ceremony, he detached, and presented to Millicent before taking his seat.
As a rule he was full of chatty conversation, but, to Millicent’s surprise, he remained perfectly silent, gazing straight before him through the window.
“Is anything the matter, Sir Gordon?” said Millicent at last. “Papa is out, but he will not be long.” These words roused him, and he smiled at her gravely.
“No, my dear Miss Luttrell,” he said, “nothing is wrong; but at my time of life, when a man has anything particular to say, he weighs it well—he brings a good deal of thought to bear. I was trying to do this now.”
“But mamma is out too,” said Millicent.
“Yes, I know,” he replied, “and therefore I came on to speak to you.”