It seemed that, on this afternoon, he was unduly sensitive to impression. The house struck him with a chill, deserted air. There seemed to be no one about as Norris led him up to the Duchess's rooms, the old portraits grinned at him, as though they would have him to know that, very soon, the house would be once more in their possession and Beaminsters dead and gone be of more importance than Beaminsters alive.
At any rate it was a cold November day, and always now the streets seemed to echo with newsboys crying out editions.
Even through these stone walls, those cries could penetrate; he could hear one as he climbed the stairs.
The Duchess, looking peaked and shrivelled, received him with an eagerness that showed that she was longing for company. The room was close, but, in spite of that, now and again she shivered a little.
As he sat opposite her the glance that she flung him was almost pathetic—struggling to maintain her pride, but showing, too, that she might now, in his company, a little relax that great effort.
"I'm not so well," she said; "I've slept badly."
"I'm sorry for that," he said; "what's the trouble?"
"It's this war," she said, taking her eyes away from his face. "This war—I don't think I've ever felt anything before, but this—Oh! I'm old, old at last," she said almost savagely.
"Everybody's feeling it just now," Christopher answered her quietly. "I suppose I'm as level-headed as most people, but even I have been imagining things to-day—Nerves, simply nerves——"
"Nonsense," she answered him—"Don't tell me, Christopher. What have I ever had to do with nerves?"