She continued to sob hysterically. To make matters worse sounds from behind the closed door led me to think that someone—presumably that confounded Mrs. Briggs—was listening at the keyhole.
“Don't, Miss Morley,” I pleaded. “Don't!”
My pleas were unavailing. The young lady sobbed and sobbed. I fidgeted on the edge of my chair in an agony of mortified embarrassment. “Don'ts” were quite useless and I could think of nothing else to say except “Compose yourself” and that, somehow or other, was too ridiculously reminiscent of Mr. Pickwick and Mrs. Bardell. It was an idiotic situation for me to be in. Some men—men of experience with woman-kind—might have known how to handle it, but I had had no such experience. It was all my fault, of course; I should not have mentioned her father. But how was I to know that Strickland Morley was a persecuted saint? I should have called him everything but that.
At last I had an inspiration.
“You are ill,” I said, rising. “I will call someone.”
That had the desired effect. My newly found third—or was it fourth or fifth—cousin made a move in protest. She fought down her emotion, her sobs ceased, and she leaned back in her chair looking paler and weaker than ever. I should have pitied her if she had not been so superior and insultingly scornful in her manner toward me. I—Well, yes, I did pity her, even as it was.
“Don't,” she said, in her turn. “Don't call anyone. I am not ill—not now.”
“But you have been,” I put in, I don't know why.
“I have not been well for some time. But I am not ill. I am quite strong enough to hear what you have to say.”
This might have been satisfactory if I had had anything to say. I had not. She evidently expected me to express repentance for something or other and make some sort of proposition. I was not repentant and I had no proposition to make. But how was I to tell her that without bringing on another storm? Oh, if I had had time to consider. If I had not come alone. If Hephzy,—cool-headed, sensible Hephzy—were only with me.