"Mistress Vawse? John Squire's boy broke a limb falling from a roof, and she has gone to attend the—what do you say?—setting of it."
"Then we are here quite alone?" asked the girl, nervously.
"Surely Miss Travis is not afraid with me?" Claude looked at her in hurt surprise. "I will retire at once to my room. When the rain ceases—"
Deborah laughed a little. "No, no. You misunderstand. I am afraid of storms. I should be frightened to death to be left here alone with—that."
Both listened as the long, low growl of thunder rolled down the sky and died away. It was growing darker again. A new storm was rising.
Claude, much relieved at the sincerity of Deborah's tone, drew a stool near her. "May I sit here by you, then?" he asked.
Deborah nodded and leaned back in her own chair. Then there fell a little silence on the room. The girl's unconscious eyes travelled over de Mailly's face as he sat regarding the rain-splashed windows; and they found a new expression, a new paleness, an unusual soberness, upon the clear-cut features. Unthinkingly, Deborah spoke:
"You are changed to-day, monsieur. I have not seen you so before. Why are you melancholy?"
He turned towards her quickly. "Yes, I have what we call les papillons noirs to-day. In some way, Mistress Deborah, 'tis your fault. In these last days I have said so much to you of my former life, jestingly perhaps, and yet feeling it, that to-day it has brought me homesickness."
Before his frank look Deborah's eyelids drooped, and presently, with a little hesitation, she said: "You once told me that some day you would relate to me why it was that you left your home. Could you not—now?"