Mrs. Harrington’s grey eyes rested on his face searchingly.
“Perhaps I could help you,” she said, “with my small influence, or--or by other means.”
“Thank you,” he said again without anger, serene in his complete independence.
Mrs. Harrington frowned. A dream passed through her mind--a great desire. What if she could crush this man’s pride? For his six years’ silence had never ceased to gall her. What if she could humble him so completely that he would come asking the help she so carelessly offered?
With a woman’s instinct she hit upon the only possible means of attaining this end. She did not pause to argue that a nature such as Luke’s would never ask anything for itself--that it is precisely such as he who have no pride when they ask for another, sacrificing even that for that other’s sake.
Following her own thoughts, Mrs. Harrington looked pensively into the room where Agatha was sitting. The girl was playing, with a little frown of concentration. The wonderful music close to her ear was busy arousing that small possibility. Agatha did not know that any one was looking at her. The two pink shades of the piano candles cast a becoming light upon her face and form.
Mrs. Harrington’s eyes came surreptitiously round. Luke also was looking at Agatha. And a queer little smile hovered across Mrs. Harrington’s lips. The dream was assuming more tangible proportions. Mrs. Harrington began to see her way; already her inordinate love of power was at work. She could not admit even to herself that Luke FitzHenry had escaped her. Women never know when they have had enough.
“How long are you to be in London?” she asked, with a sudden kindness.
“Only a fortnight.”
“Well, you must often come and see me. I shall have the Ingham-Bakers staying with me a few weeks longer. It is dull for poor Agatha with only two old women in the house. Come to lunch to-morrow, and we can do something in the afternoon.”