'Willy,' she said, 'I am very, very sorry!'
She was beginning to think now that he really loved her in his way, although by some curious oversight he had omitted to mention the fact.
He turned his head in her direction, and his hand caressed his moustache with its habitual grace.
'I don't quite understand it,' he murmured. 'Of course ... it is a bitter disappointment to me. I have been mistaken.'
She made no attempt to alleviate his evident melancholy—expressed no regret that he should have been mistaken. The time for sympathy was past, and she allowed him to fight out his bitter fight alone. Presently he went towards the chair where he had thrown his cloak and hat. These he took up, and returned to her with his hand outstretched.
'Good-bye, Brenda!' he said, for once without affectation.
'Good-bye,' she replied simply, and long after William Hicks had left the room she stood there with her white hands hanging down at either side like some delicate flower resting on the soft black material in which she was clad.
CHAPTER VIII.
HICKS' SECRET.
When Mrs. Wylie returned home about five o'clock she found the drawing-room still in darkness. The maid had offered to light the gas, but Brenda told her to leave it. In the pleasant glow of the firelight the widow found her young friend sitting in her favourite chair with interlocked fingers in her lap.