THE EXECRABLE UNKNOWN.
"Doubting things go wrong,
Often hurts more than to be sure they do."
—Shakespeare.
Honor found Evelyn in a state of chastened happiness, buttering toast for Theo's breakfast, which stood ready on a tray at her side.
"Would you like to take this in yourself?" she said, as she completed her task. "I think he would be pleased. He was asking where you were."
The suggestion was so graciously proffered that Honor deposited a light kiss on the coiled floss silk of Evelyn's hair as she bent above the table. Then she took up the tray, and went on into the study.
She entered, and set it down without speaking; and Desmond, who was lying back with closed eyes, roused himself at the sound.
"Thank you, little woman," he said. Then, with a start, "Ah, Honor,—it's you. Very kind of you to trouble. Good-morning."
The contrast in his tone and manner was apparent, even in so few words; and Honor was puzzled.
"I hope you got some sleep last night," she said, "after that cruel thirty-six hours."
"More or less, thanks. But I had a good deal to say to Paul. You and he seem to have become very close friends while I have been away."