"He will be distressed." The dead leaves on the path were trembling over the broken pieces of stone and whistling, in little excited groups, above it—"Just as though they are glad," she thought.
She and Rachel had a very amiable conversation at luncheon. Rachel confessed to a bad night.
Lizzie told her about Jacob.
"How tiresome of him to come and bother you—yes, I couldn't sleep and he was very restless too, so I put him into the passage. It was after six—I meant him to go down to the servants' hall. I'm so sorry, Miss Rand."
"Oh, he didn't worry me at all. I was awake." That appeal was in Rachel's eyes to-day more than ever. Lizzie saw it and steeled her heart. "I must know," she thought. "I must know."
"I'm afraid," she said, "that I'll have to go back to London to-morrow. I heard from Lady Adela this morning—The Duchess is not so well."
"Oh!" Rachel caught her breath—"oh, Miss Rand, no, no, oh! I hope not! You must stay! I——!" her colour came and went. "There's the dance. I don't know what I shall do without you." And she went on more desperately, catching Lizzie's eyes and evading them. "We are just beginning to be so happy here. My husband likes you so much. I do hope——"
She stopped and the colour left her again; her hands were trembling on the white tablecloth.
The strangest impulse flooded Lizzie's breast, an impulse to go to her and put her arms about her and kiss her and let her, there and then, unburden her heart—
Lizzie drove the impulse down, buried it. Her eyes were cold and her voice hard as she answered—