"No, Hobbs," said Lorimer, profoundly touched. "I promise you that nothing shall happen to it; make your mind easy about that."
And he took the good woman's hands and pressed them with warmth.
"Thank you, sir, thank you," said Hobbs, wiping her eyes—"oh, I hear mistress moving, I will go to her now."
"Dear devoted creature!" said Lorimer to himself when Hobbs had gone out. "The doctor is right, the world is not so bad—I wonder what all this means: the episode of the easel—what can that signify except that Dora loves Philip still, and cannot forget him? Alas, perhaps it is only the Philip of the old days that she tries to keep in her memory. Anyhow, it is a good symptom—my little idea is growing."
Hearing steps in the adjoining room, he drew from his pocket a small packet which Philip had confided to his care. It was the "little family," of which the reader made the acquaintance at the beginning of this story. Philip had said to him, "Carry this letter to Dora and plead for me. If she refuses to listen to you and refuses to read my letter, give her this little packet, it will intercede for me."
Dora came into the studio pale and evidently ill, but walking with a tolerably firm step. She made a kindly gesture to Hobbs and closed the door of the bedroom.
"Ah, my dear friend," she said to Lorimer, "how good of you to come! I have not been very well lately, but I am better, much better ... well! what now? Why do you look at me like that?"
"Why do I look at you?"
"Yes."
Lorimer had never seen Dora looking more beautiful than to-day. Her very pallor added a new charm. Her black gown was moulded to the lovely lines of her figure, and her hair was becomingly dressed. Lorimer had taken both her hands in his and was looking at her with eyes that expressed a mingling of sympathy, respect, and admiration.