At sight of him the girl started up, with a renewed effort to get the better of her grief; but the kind tone of Gimblet’s voice put the finishing touch to her emotions: losing all attempt at self-control, she laid her head down on the table before her and gave way to unrestrained and passionate tears.
Gimblet let her weep for a while, then he sat down near her and tried to comfort her. He took one of her hands and patted it gently, as if she had been a child.
“There, there,” he said, “don’t cry any more. Tell me what’s the matter and let’s see if something can’t be done about it.”
Gradually her tears came more slowly; the convulsive sobs that had shaken her died away, and she sat up and dried her eyes, looking at him from time to time with furtive shyness.
“You are very kind, sir,” she said at last, succumbing reluctantly to that feeling of confidence which Gimblet always succeeded in inspiring if he tried. “It was—it was only because you asked to see my mother.”
“How’s that?”
“She—she—I don’t know where she is.”
“No? But never mind. You will hear where she has been when she comes home.”
“You don’t understand. She hasn’t been home for four days, and I have no idea when she is coming back. She did not tell me anything.”
“Dear me!” Gimblet looked grave. “When do you say you saw her last?”