“Yes. I cannot ask Mrs. Coventry to recommend me, when I have innocently brought so much trouble into her family; and Lady Sydney is gone, so I have no friend.”
“Except John Coventry. I will arrange all that. When will you go, Jean?”
“Tomorrow.”
“So soon!” And the old man’s voice betrayed the trouble he was trying to conceal.
Jean had grown very calm, but it was the calmness of desperation. She had hoped that the first tears would produce the avowal for which she waited. It had not, and she began to fear that her last chance was slipping from her. Did the old man love her? If so, why did he not speak? Eager to profit by each moment, she was on the alert for any hopeful hint, any propitious word, look, or act, and every nerve was strung to the utmost.
“Jean, may I ask one question?” said Sir John.
“Anything of me, sir.”
“This man whom you love—can he not help you?”
“He could if he knew, but he must not.”
“If he knew what? Your present trouble?”