XIX.
One evening in spring Mildred returned home. Harold had not long returned from the city, the candles were lighted. He was sitting in the drawing-room thinking, thinking of her.
'Mildred! is that you?'
'Yes, how do you do, Harold?'
'Come and sit near the fire, you've had a cold journey. When did you return?'
'Last night. We had a dreadful crossing, I stayed in bed all the morning. That was why I didn't come to see you in the city.'
Harold sat for some moments without speaking, looking into the fire.
Reticence was natural to him; he refrained from questioning her, and thought instead of some harmless subject of conversation. Her painting? But she had abandoned painting. Her money? she had lost it! … that was the trouble she was in. He had warned her against putting her money into that paper…. But there was no use worrying her, she would tell him presently. Besides, there was not time to talk about it now, dinner would soon be ready.
'It is now half-past six, don't you think you'd better go upstairs and get ready?'
'Oh, don't bother me about the dinner, Harold. What does it matter if it is a few minutes late. I can't go upstairs yet. I want to sit here.'