"I did n't mean to frighten you, Lena," Miss Wycliffe said quietly, when she had shut the door carefully behind her and taken a chair. "I thought you might be ill, and came to see whether I could do anything for you."
The words were kind, but there was something in the speaker's manner that was less assuring. Her face was pale, and her eyes were bright, but not with compassion. Confronting each other thus, they presented a striking contrast. The mistress's dark, rich beauty made the other's prettiness seem ephemeral, without reducing it to the level of the commonplace; for Lena was not common as servants are, either in her personality or in the atmosphere she created in her room. Even her visitor, absorbed as she was in her own purpose, was not unconscious of the cleanliness of the place, of the artistic aspiration represented by the few prints on the walls.
"I did have a turn, Miss Wycliffe," Lena stammered, "but I feel better now. I thought, perhaps, if I went out to get the fresh air"—
"And saw the procession?" her mistress suggested, with a curious smile.
Lena nodded guiltily, and a flush quickly spread beyond the limits of colour which art had fixed in her cheeks.
"Perhaps that would do you good," Miss Wycliffe remarked. Then, with a penetrating regard, she added, "And I suspect you have a personal interest in the parade, Lena."
"I want to see Mr. Emmet," the girl confessed, as if she could not resist the inquisition of the stronger nature confronting her. But there was pride, too, as well as implication, in the admission.
"Perhaps it was Mr. Emmet who gave you that odd ring?" Miss Wycliffe continued relentlessly.
"Yes," in a voice that was almost a whisper.
"And you regard it as an engagement ring?"