‘Trust me, Mrs. Trevanard.’
She looked at him earnestly with her melancholy eyes—looked as if she would fain have pierced the secrets of his heart.
‘You are a man of the world,’ she said, ‘and therefore might be able to give help and counsel in a difficult matter. You are a gentleman, and therefore would not betray a family secret. But what reason can you have for interesting yourself in my affairs? Why should you take any trouble about me or mine?’
‘First, because I am honestly attached to your son; and secondly, because I have felt a profound interest in your afflicted daughter.’
At that word the mother started up from her reclining position, and looked at the speaker fixedly.
‘Muriel!’ she exclaimed, ‘I did not know you had ever seen her.’
‘I have seen her and spoken to her. I met her one evening in the copse at the bottom of the garden, and talked to her.’
‘What did she talk about?’
‘You—and—her child.’
This was a random shot, but it hit the mark.