"Dr. Rendall is out, I hear," said a voice that made me jump up very hurriedly.
It was Jean Rendall, delightful to look at as ever, but with a new expression on her face. If she was not anxious, and very keenly anxious too, about something, I was much mistaken.
Unwillingly I resumed the role of Thomas Hobhouse and informed her nervously that the doctor had gone out, I knew not where.
She said nothing for a moment, but still lingered. Then she said,
"What a dreadful thing about poor Mr. Bolton!"
"Dreadful!" agreed Mr. Hobhouse. "Terrible! Dreadful! Terrible!"
"Did my cousin tell you much about it?"
"Oh, no, not much, very little. He was upset, very much upset, I could see."
"Everybody is," she said, and then added, "I should think you must be,
Mr. Hobhouse."
There seemed to be an odd note in her voice set up a vague chain of disquieting emotions, but Mr. Hobhouse answered in the same tone as before: