“No,” said Guest dryly. “I should think not.”
Farther conversation was stayed by the entrance of Myra, looking rapt and strange, as if in a dream. She did not seem to notice them, but walked across to the window, and, as she went, Guest was shocked by the alteration in her aspect. It was as if she had lately risen from a bed of sickness, while that which struck him most was the weary, piteous aspect of her eyes.
As she turned them upon him at last it was in a questioning way, which he interpreted to mean, “I am dying for news of him, but it is impossible for me to ask;” and a curious feeling of resentment rose within him against Stratton, for he felt that he had literally wrecked, the life of as true a woman as ever breathed.
A faint smile dawned upon her lips, and she glanced from him to Edie and back—a look which made the crimson on Edie’s cheeks grow deeper, as the girl said quickly:
“Mr Guest came to tell me how hard he is trying to get some news, and what he has done.”
“News!” cried Myra excitedly, and her hands were raised toward their visitor, but she let them drop to her sides as her brows contracted.
“He has been telling me that he has—”
“Where is papa—has he come back?” said Myra, coldly ignoring her cousin’s proffered information, and a few minutes later Guest shook hands and went away.
“Her pride keeps her silent,” he said thoughtfully. “No wonder, but she’d give the world to hear the least bit of news. Poor girl! She’d forgive him almost anything. I must, and will, find it all out before I’ve done.”
But the days grew into weeks, and Guest’s visits to Bourne Square were always barren of news, save that he was able to announce that Stratton certainly did go to his chambers now and then. This he found out from the porter’s wife, who bitterly bewailed the state into which they were falling.