"No," Charley answers; "I don't think she did. I didn't tell her, and I am pretty sure if she had found it out for herself her family circle would have heard of it. I greatly doubt even whether she would not have taken the liberty of calling upon you."
She lifts her eyes again, with a reproach her lips will not speak.
"I have deserved it," that dark, sad glance says, "but you might spare me."
"We were all very sorry to hear of Sir Victor Catheron's death,"
Charley resumes gravely. "Hammond told us; he writes occasionally.
Heart disease, wasn't it?—poor fellow! I hope Lady Helena Powyss
is quite well?"
"She is quite well."
Then there is a pause—her heart is full, and he stands here so utterly unmoved, talking common-places, and looking as though even the memory of the past were dead and buried. As no doubt indeed it is. She handles the gloves she still holds nervously, for once in her life at a loss.
"Your mother and Trix are well?" she says after that pause.
"Quite well."
She looks up desperately:
"Charley," she exclaims; "mayn't I see them? I have wanted to see them so much—to—" No, her voice breaks, she cannot finish the sentence.