“For my part,” he said, with a clumsy effort to hide his own emotion, “I am beginning to think that the ordinary daily newspapers are unsuitable reading for young ladies, who had better keep to the magazines and journals specially devoted to their wants.”
There was no word spoken in return, and after another cough, the old man continued:
“What was that you said about dropping me at the club? By all means, yes. My leg was rather bad in the night. Don’t care so much about walking as I used.”
Still there was no reply, and, as if struck by the notion that he had been left alone in the room, Sir Mark coughed again nervously, and slowly moved himself in his chair, to turn the paper slightly aside, and, as if by accident, so that he could see beyond one side.
He sat there the next moment petrified, and staring at his daughter’s wildly excited face, for, resting one hand on the table, she was leaning toward him, her hand extended to take the paper, and her eyes questioning his, while Edie, looking terribly agitated, was also leaning forward as if to restrain her cousin.
Sir Mark’s lips parted and moved, but he made no sound. Then recovering himself, he hastily closed the paper, doubled it over again, and rose from his chair.
“Myra, my darling!” he cried, “are you ill?”
Her lips now moved in turn, but without a sound at first; then she threw back her head, and her eyes grew more dilated as she cried hoarsely:
“That paper—there is news—something about my husband.”
“Edie, ring! She is ill,” cried Sir Mark.