"I see victory—the battle won—already," said Lady Dashwood, looking at her intently. "I wish I could explain——"
"Let it ooze out, Aunt Lena. I can stay for three days—if you want—if I can really do anything for you——"
"Can't you stay a week?" asked Lady Dashwood. "May, I'm not joking. I want your presence badly—can't you spare the time? Relieve my mind, dear, at once, by telling me you can!"
Lady Dashwood's face suddenly became puckered and her voice was so urgent that May's smile died away.
"If it is really important I'll stay a week. Nothing wrong about you—or—Uncle John?" May looked into her aunt's eyes.
"No!" said Lady Dashwood. "John doesn't like my being away. An old soldier has much to make him sad now, but no——" Then she added in an undertone, "Jim ..." and she stared into her niece's face.
Under the portrait of that bold, handsome, unscrupulous Warden of King's a faithful clock ticked to the passing of time. The time it showed now was twenty minutes to eight. Both ladies in silence had turned to the fire and they were now both standing each with one foot on the fender and were looking up at the portrait and not at the clock. Neither of them, however, thought of the portrait. They merely looked at it—as one must look at something.
"Jim," sighed Lady Dashwood. "You don't know him, May."
"Is it he who is ill?" asked May.
"He's not ill. He is terribly depressed at times because so many of his old pupils are gone—for ever. But it's not that, not that that I mean. You know what learned men are, May?" Lady Dashwood did not ask a question, she was making an assertion.