“My dear child!” she cried; “my dear girl! I’m so glad to see you! I’ve thought of you so much! And I pity you so. Poor Malcolm has—Malcolm,” sharply, “come here! Don’t you see Caroline?”
Malcolm was groping nervously for his hat. He picked it up and obeyed his mother’s summons, though with no great eagerness.
“How d’ye do, Caroline,” he stammered, confusedly. “I—I—It’s a deuce of a surprise to see you down here. The mater and I didn’t expect—that is, we scarcely hoped to meet anyone but Sylvester. He sent for us, you know.”
He extended his hand. She did not take it.
“Did you get my letter?” she asked, quickly. Mrs. Dunn answered for him.
“Yes, dear, he got it,” she said. “The poor fellow was almost crazy. I began to fear for his sanity; I did, indeed. I did not dare trust him out of my sight. Oh, if you could but know how we feel for you and pity you!”
Pity was not what Caroline wanted just then. The word jarred upon her. She avoided the lady’s embrace and once more faced the embarrassed Malcolm.
“You got my letter?” she cried. “You did?”
“Yes—er—yes, I got it, Caroline. I—by Jove, you know—”
He hesitated, stammered, and looked thoroughly uncomfortable. His mother regarded him wrathfully.