She did not answer him, but she took one of his hands in hers and pressed it to her cheek. His consolation had hardly touched that strange oppression which weighed upon her; and Julian, in high feather, and quite unaware that only his voice was heard by her, his words passing her by unheeded, had been talking at great length about all the happiness before them, when she said, in a hesitating, far-away voice:
“Could you—could you come home with me this afternoon?”
Julian paused a moment. The question was hardly the response his words had demanded. Then he said decisively:
“Quite impossible, I am sorry to say. I would if I could, you know, dear, but it’s quite impossible!”
She gave his hand a little quick pressure.
“I know, of course!” she murmured gently. She paused a moment, and then said in a low voice, rather irrelevantly as it seemed: “Julian”—his name still came rather hesitatingly from her lips—“do you think—do you like Mrs. Jackson?”
Mrs. Jackson was the name of the woman whose rooms Julian had taken for her, and he started slightly at the question.
“She’s not a bad sort,” he said, with rather startled consideration. “At least, she seems all right. Isn’t she nice to you, Clemence? Don’t you like the rooms?”
“Oh, yes! yes!” she said quickly, almost as though she reproached herself for saying anything that could suggest to him even a shadow of discontent on her part. “I like them so very, very much. It is only—I don’t know what exactly. Somehow, I don’t think Mrs. Jackson is quite a nice woman.” She had spoken the last words hesitatingly and with difficulty, almost as though they came from her against her will.
Julian glanced at her quickly.