Mrs. Falconer tried to lead him on.
"Well, this is an unfortunate place to stop," she confessed. "That portrait represents more tragedy than you can see."
"It couldn't," murmured Bulstrode.
"The poor girl who did it has struggled on here for two years, living sometimes on a franc a day. Just fancy! She has been trying to get orders so that she can stay on and study. Poor thing! The people who are interested say that she's been near to desperation. She is awfully proud, and won't take any assistance but orders. You can imagine they're not besieging her! She has come to her last cent, I believe, and has to go home to Idaho."
"Let her go, my dear friend." Bulstrode was earnest. "It's the best thing she could possibly do!"
His companion put her hand on his arm.
"Please be quiet," she implored. "There she is, standing over by the door. That rather pretty girl with the disorderly blonde hair."
Bulstrode looked up—saw her—looked again, and exclaimed:
"Is that the girl? Do you know her? Present me, will you?"
"Nonsense." She detained him. "How you go from hot to cold! Why should you want to meet her, pray?"