Her eyes were open and fixed on him, but the sharp ray the little dressmaker used to direct into Lomax Place as she plied her needle at the window had completely left them. “Not there—what should I do there?” she inquired, very softly. “Not with the great—the great—” and her voice failed.
“The great what? What do you mean?”
“You know—you know,” she went on, making another effort. “Haven’t you been with them? Haven’t they received you?”
“Ah, they won’t separate us, Pinnie; they won’t come between us as much as that,” said Hyacinth, kneeling by her bed.
“You must be separate—that makes me happier. I knew they would find you at last.”
“Poor Pinnie, poor Pinnie,” murmured the young man.
“It was only for that—now I’m going,” she went on.
“If you’ll stay with me you needn’t fear,” said Hyacinth, smiling at her.
“Oh, what would they think?” asked the dressmaker.
“I like you best,” said Hyacinth.