"I have gone out very little for months."
"Excuse me, my dear, you will think me an intrusive old woman, but what is your name? Elsie, Elsie! that is quite strange to me. Do you remember your mother at all?"
"No—that is, like a faint, far-away dream!"
"What was her name?"
"I think I was called after her. I never speak about her, for my father cannot bear it. His sorrow must have been great."
"I suppose so—I suppose so," thoughtfully. "You will forgive my abruptness, I am not asking from idle curiosity."
"I have nothing to forgive." Here the tinkle of a bell was heard. "My father is ready; will you come?" said Elsie, rising. She conducted them into the drawing-room, where Lambert, shaved and smartened up, sat in his large chair, which had been brought down-stairs; a few flowers and some books gave an inhabited air to the room, while the exquisite neatness of the invalid and his surroundings bespoke loving care.
Lady Gethin's quick eye noted everything. Lambert brightened a little as he thanked her with simple courtesy for her visit. Glynn saw that she scrutinized him with profound attention, and drew him out rather than spoke to him.
Glynn himself had various matters to speak of with Elsie, who looked more like what she had been in Paris than she had since they had met again.
After some little time Lady Gethin turned to Elsie and said, gravely, "Will you forgive me, my dear young lady, if I ask you to leave me with your father and Mr. Glynn? I have one or two matters to speak of." She paused.