Her idol was thrown down. Yet, what did it 167 matter that his feet were clay? She stood where Mrs. Swinton had left her, rooted to the spot as if unable to move. This room was in Dick’s home, and shadowed by remembrances of him.
The door opened, and the rector looked in, with a face so ghastly and drawn that she almost cried out in terror. His hair was white, and his eyes looked wild.
“Oh, you, Miss Dundas,” he murmured, as he advanced with an extended, limp hand. “I thought I heard my wife’s voice.”
“I have come to offer my condolences,” murmured Dora, unable to do more than utter commonplaces in the face of his grief.
“Yes, yes—thank you—thank you. It is a great blow, but I suppose we shall be reconciled in time.”
With that, he turned abruptly and hurried away into the study, not trusting himself to say more, and omitting to bid her adieu.
Her mission had failed, and, as Netty did not return, she let herself out of the house quietly, and, with one last look round at Dick’s home, crept away.