"You will suit him exactly. You are young enough, in all conscience—pretty enough, if you will pardon my saying so, to brighten even a duller house than that. You play, you sing, you can read aloud. What more do you want? You need a home. There is a home. And"—a long pause—"who can tell what may come of it?"
She was looking up, he was looking down. Their eyes met. In the darkness they could yet look at each other long and steadily for a moment. Then hers fell.
"How old is Mr. Darcy?" she asked in a subdued voice.
"He is seventy-eight, old, feeble, and easily worked upon. I say again—who knows what may come of it? To be disinherited is the only thing in heaven or earth Laurence Thorndyke is afraid of. And old men of eighty, with stubborn minds and strong resentments, do sometimes make such strange wills."
Again there was a pause. Then Norine Bourdon spoke firmly.
"I will go with you to New York."
He drew a long breath of relief.
"I thought you would. You will not repent it, Mrs. Laurence. By-the-by, would you mind leaving that name behind you?"
She looked at him inquiringly.
"You will accompany me to New York as my niece, Jane Liston. I have a niece of that name, a widow, out in Oregon. As my niece, Mrs. Jane Liston, from the country, looking for work in the city, I will introduce you to my landlady, a most respectable woman. As my niece, Jane Liston, I will present you to Mr. Darcy. We don't want Master Laurence to see our little game. If you went as Mrs. Laurence, or Miss Kent, even, he would. He will be sure to hear the name of Miss Holmes' successor.'