"Well—she hopes soon to see me—to see both of us—"
Constance was too kindly to quiz her sister; maybe she saw something in Enid's eye which threatened speedy retaliation.
"Here's a note from the vicar. They have held a special service of intercession at St. Mary's."
"And Hettie Morris writes—Good gracious, Mr. Pyne! Have you had any bad news?"
Enid's wondering cry was evoked by the extraordinary way in which the young American was looking at her. Some intensely exciting knowledge had mastered stoicism. His eyes were distended, his lips quivering. He leaned with one hand on the kitchen table; in the other he had clenched his uncle's letter.
Constance stood near to him. That he, of all the men she had ever met, should yield to an overpowering emotion, startled her greatly.
She caught his arm.
"Mr. Pyne," she said softly, "if—it is any ill tidings—you have received—we are, indeed, sorry for you."
He pulled himself straight, and gave Constance such a glance that she hastily withdrew her hand. It seemed to her that he would clasp her in his arms forthwith without spoken word. Her action served to steady him, and he laughed, so softly and pleasantly that their fear was banished.
"Girls," he said slowly, "I have been parachuting through space for a minute or so. I'm all right. Everybody is all right. But my head swims a bit. If I come back forgetting my name and the place where I last resided, remember that once I loved you."