“No,” said Elizabeth, speaking for the first time. “I must hear what there is to tell.”
Andy just glanced her way and turned again to her mother—he dared not trust himself to look at her.
“Mrs. Atterton,” he said, “I have been sent by Mr. Stamford, who is so upset that Mrs. Stamford cannot leave him, to tell you that—that——”
It was of no use—the words refused to come.
“Well?” breathed Elizabeth.
“For goodness sake get on,” cried Mrs. Atterton.
“Stamford was married to Phyllis Webster at a registrar’s in London this morning.”
Andy stood, straight and white, in the middle of the hearthrug; Elizabeth buried her face in her hands with her elbows on the table, very still; Mrs. Atterton sobbed out, “My poor girl! My poor little girl!” and ran to throw her arms round her daughter. But Andy was there first.
“You care?” he said breathlessly. “You’re sorry?”
And the whole world seemed to wait upon her answer as she lifted her face from her hands.