“Oh no. I am going to live with my uncle in Suffolk.”
He moved away a few steps to pick up a fallen newspaper. Presently he came back to her, resuming his former position at the corner of the mantelpiece.
It was Eve who spoke next--smoothing out her silken trifle of needlework and looking at it critically.
“I never thanked you,” she said, “for all your kindness to me at D’Erraha. You were a friend in need.”
It was quite different from what it had been at D’Erraha. Possibly it was as different as were the atmospheres of the two places. Eve seemed to have something of London in the reserve of her manner - the easy insincerity of her speech. She was no longer a girl untainted by worldliness--sincere, frank, and open.
Fitz was rather taken aback.
“Oh,” he answered, “I could not do much. There was really nothing that I could do except to stand by in case I might be wanted.”
Eve took up her needle again.
“But,” she said, “that is already something. It is often a great comfort, especially to women, to know that there is some one ‘standing by,’ as you call it, in case they are wanted.”
She gave a little laugh, and then suddenly became quite grave. The recollection of a conversation they had had at D’Erraha had flashed across her memory, as recollections do--at the wrong time. The conversation she remembered was recorded at the time--it was almost word for word with this, but quite different.