'You do not know Emily; she is strangely sensitive. But I will go and try to persuade her to return.... Although only distantly related, you are cousins, after all—are you not?'
'Yes, we are cousins, but the relationship is remote. Tell her everything; beg of her to come down-stairs.'
Hubert imagined Emily's little black figure thrown upon her bed, sobbing convulsively. He was very much agitated, and looked about the room, at first hardly seeing it. At last its novelty drew his thoughts from his cousin's tears, and he wondered what was the history of the house. 'The old man,' he thought, 'bought it all, furniture and ancestors, from some ruined landowner, and attempted very few alterations—that's clear.' Then he reproached himself. 'How could I have been so stupid? I did not know what I was saying. I was so horribly nervous. Those strange eyes of hers quite upset me. I do hope Mrs. Bentley will tell her that I wish to act generously, that I am prepared to do everything in my power to make her happy. Poor little thing! She looks as if she had never been happy.' Again the room drew Hubert's thoughts away from his cousin. It was still lit with the faint perfumed glow of the sunset. The paint of the old decorations was cracked and faded. A man in a plum-coloured coat with gold facings fixed his eyes upon him, and the tall lady in blue satin had no doubt played there in short clothes. He walked up and down, he turned over the music on the piano, and, hearing a step, looked round. It was only the servant coming to tell him that his room was ready.
He dressed for dinner, hoping to find the two ladies in the drawing-room, and it was a disappointment to find only Mrs. Bentley there.
'I have told Emily everything you said. She is very grateful, and begs of me to thank you for your kind intentions. But I am afraid you must excuse her absence from dinner. I really don't think she is in a fit state to come down; she couldn't possibly take part in the conversation.'
'But why? I hope she isn't ill? Had we better send for the doctor?'
'Oh no; she'll be all right in the morning. She has been crying. She suffers from depression of spirits. She is, I assure you, all right,' said Mrs. Bentley, replying to Hubert's alarmed and questioning face. 'I assure you there is no need for you to reproach yourself. Dinner is ready.' She took his arm, and they went into the dining-room.
No further mention was made of Mr. Burnett, of money matters, or of the young lady up-stairs; and with considerable tact Mrs. Bentley introduced the subject of literature, alluding gracefully to Hubert's position as a dramatist.
'Your play, Divorce, is now running at the Queen's Theatre?'
No; I'm sorry to say it was taken out of the bills last Saturday. Saturday night was the last performance.'