Maurice thought she would have been frightened at sight of him, and would have hurried away. But, to his surprise, she came a little nearer him, cautiously, stealthily even, those restless eyes glancing right and left as she approached. There was a curious intensity in her gaze when her eyes fixed themselves at last upon his face, peering at him, scrutinizing him with something of her mother’s keen look. One hand was lifted to her head to push back the wild mass of tangled hair, and the loose sleeve of her gown fell back from the white wasted arm. Face and body seemed alike wasted by the mind’s consuming fire.
‘You can tell me, perhaps,’ she said, in a quick eager voice, ‘others won’t, they’re too unkind, for they must know. You can tell me, I’m sure. When will he come back?’
‘My poor soul, I would gladly tell you if I knew. But I don’t even know whom you are talking of.’
‘Oh yes, you do. Mother knows. She told you, I dare say. I’m not going to tell his name. I promised to keep that secret, whatever it cost me to be silent, and I’m not going to break my promise. When is he coming back?’
She paused, looking at him with beseeching expectant eyes, as if she waited breathless for his answer.
‘Is he ever coming back?’
She waited again.
‘Indeed, Miss Trevanard, I know nothing about it.’
‘How dare you call me Miss Trevanard? That’s not my name.’
‘Muriel, then.’