She looked at me with furtive alarm. I could see she was nerving herself for a grapple with the unknown.
“What matter?” she said.
I lowered my voice to the key of confidences that are dire if not actually tragic:
“How about poor Amelia?” I murmured.
She dropped her eyes to her cup, frowning a little. I was thrilling with excitement, waiting to hear what she was going to say. After a moment she lifted her face, perfectly calm and grave, to mine, and said:
“Really, the subject is a very painful one to me. I’d rather not talk about it.”
It was a master-stroke. I could not have done better myself. I eyed her with open admiration. You never would have thought it of her; she seemed so young. After she had spoken she gave a sigh, and again looked down at her cup, with an expression on her face of pensive musing. At that moment the voices of the men leaving the dining-room struck on my ear.
I put my hand into the front of my dress, and undid the safety-pin. My manner became furtive and hurried.
“Mrs. Kennedy,” I said, leaning across the table, and speaking almost in a whisper, “I entirely sympathize with your feelings, but I am very much worried about Amelia. You know the—the—circumstances.” She raised her eyes, looked into mine, and nodded darkly. “Well, I have something here for her. It’s nothing much,” I said, in answer to a look of protest I saw rising in her face—“just the merest trifle I would like you to give her. She will understand.”
I drew out the bag, and I saw her looking at it with curious, uneasy eyes. The men were approaching through the back drawing-room. I rose to my feet, and still with the secret, hurried air, I said: