"I will shut up the room," he said; "you need not wait up."
The man withdrew, closing the door softly behind him.
Bertha found herself standing close to Trevor. She looked into his face and noted with a sense of approval how handsome and manly and simple-looking he was. An ideal young Englishman, without guile or reproach. He was looking back at her, and once more that peculiar expression in his honest blue eyes appeared.
"I want to consult with you," he said: "something is giving me a good deal of uneasiness."
"What is that, Mr. Trevor?"
"When I was in town I met Miss Florence Aylmer."
"Did you really? How interesting!" Bertha dropped lightly into the nearest chair. "Well, and how was the dear Florence? Had she got a berth of any sort? Is she very busy? She is terribly poor, you know."
"She is disgracefully, shamefully poor," was his answer, spoken with some indignation, the colour flaming over his face as he spoke.
Bertha did not say anything, but she looked full at him. After a moment's pause, she uttered one word softly and half below her breath, and that word was simply: "Yes?"
"She is disgracefully poor!" he repeated. "Miss Keys, that ought not to be the case."