Mrs. Flint had never thought of the subject in that way before, but when her old friend, Doctor Savoy, presented it so artfully to her mind, she consented to the plan, knowing that she would be very lonely in the quiet house, now that willful Cinthia’s bright presence was removed.
So when the snows of Christmas lay deep on the ground, the new servant was up and about the little house, serving her new mistress skillfully and well, but preserving a rather sullen and taciturn demeanor, as if somehow she had a quarrel with fate and could not be reconciled to some scurvy trick it had played upon her now or in past days.
While Mrs. Flint was wondering how to put to her some plain questions as to her service with her brother’s wife, Rachel Dane forestalled her by saying, in a sort of casual way:
“When I got off the train at the station, I saw a man I used to know—Mr. Everard Dawn. Does he live hereabout?”
“No,” replied Mrs. Flint.
“Visiting, maybe?” with veiled anxiety.
“Yes.”
“Oh! At whose house?”
“At mine; but he has gone to Europe, now,” returned Mrs. Flint, succinctly.
The woman started, and muttered some inaudible words, as though she had received an unpleasant surprise.