“I haven’t been here in two or three days,” he began, as he took the hand she offered, “and I’m really astonished at the progress you’ve been making.”
He still retained her hand, as he smiled down into her grave, preoccupied face.
“What’s the trouble with our little lady of Bolton House?” he inquired. “Any of the workmen on strike, or—”
She withdrew her hand with a faint smile.
“Everything is going very well, I think,” she told him.
He was still scrutinizing her with that air of intimate concern, which inspired most of the women of his flock to unburden themselves of their manifold anxieties at his slightest word of encouragement.
“It’s a pretty heavy burden for you,” he said gravely. “You need some one to help you. I wonder if I couldn’t shoulder a few of the grosser details?”
“You’ve already been most kind,” Lydia said evasively. “But now— Oh, I think everything has been thought of. You know Mr. Whittle is looking after the work.”
He smiled, a glimmer of humorous understanding in his fine dark eyes. “Yes, I know,” he said.
A silence fell between them. Lydia was one of those rare women who do not object to silence. It seemed to her that she had always lived alone with her ambitions, which could not be shared, and her bitter knowledge, which was never to be spoken of. But now she stirred uneasily in her chair, aware of the intent expression in his eyes. Her troubled thoughts reverted to the little picture which had fluttered to the floor from somebody’s keeping only an hour before.