Craven Black assented.
“Did you see any one you knew?”
“No; how should I? None of my acquaintances come to the Highlands in November. I was as unrecognized at Inverness as I should be in Patagonia. I will change my clothes and take you down to dinner.”
He went into his dressing-room and changed his garments. Octavia paced the room restlessly during his absence. He returned in the course of some minutes and escorted his wife down to the dining-room, where Mrs. Artress joined them.
He noticed that Octavia ate nothing at the meal. She complained of a lack of appetite, and moved restlessly in her chair, starting at every sound.
“I have read of the ancients placing a death’s head at their feasts,” said Black grimly, “and I seem to have followed their customs. Octavia, do try to look like something better than a galvanized corpse.”
Octavia arose and went to the window, a spasm of pain convulsing her hard features. The heartless mockery of her confederate in guilt smote upon her in that hour of suffering like an avenging sword. How she had loved him, and had sinned for him! And this was her reward!
Craven Black finished his dinner quietly, and drank his wine. Then he arose with an air of gayety, and said:
“I have everything you sent for, Octavia, and some things you neglected to send for. We can stand a siege in this old house all winter, if need be. The boys are already bringing up the hampers. Will you have a look at them?”
Octavia assented with a heavy sigh, and passed out into the front hall with Craven Black and Mrs. Artress.