Mrs. Barkley felt the color come up into her face at that small, cold sound. "Lydia is very poor," she blurted out.
"Really?" murmured Mr. Rives, with embarrassment; and fell to stroking his beaver hat carefully. Then he added that he deeply regretted Mrs. Barkley's information.
"I knew you would," she said, in a relieved voice. "Lydia is a dear girl. So kind and so uncomplaining! And—and faithful in her affections, William."
"Ah!" said Mr. Rives again; his smile never changed, but his eyes were keen.
"Yes," Mrs. Barkley said, boldly. "Why, William—I don't know that I ought to tell you, but do you remember a sketch of yourself that you gave her in—in other days? William, she has kept it ever since. It hangs in her parlor, (horrid, smoky room!) And she keeps a sprig of fresh box stuck in the frame."
"Really?" said Mr. Rives; and his face grew a little redder.
"That's all," Mrs. Barkley said, abruptly. "Now go. I just thought I'd mention it."
"Yes," said Mr. Rives; then added that it was a beautiful night, and politely bowed himself out.
"But he didn't say anything about giving anything," Mrs. Barkley told Dr. Lavendar the next day. And whatever romantic hopes she may have had withered under the blighting touch of such indifference.