“Do, dear; I’d like it,” Grizel said kindly, her eyes fixed on the girl’s figure, with an astonished admiration. Teresa had taken off her dress, and put on a plainly made blue cashmere dressing-gown, the loose folds of which disguised the somewhat ungainly lines of her figure, and gave to it an effect of dignity and height. Her hair had been unloosed and hung in two heavy plaits to her waist, giving a Gretchen-like expression to the fair, blue-eyed face. Teresa had prepared herself for her siesta with characteristic thoroughness, but apparently without avail. She seated herself beside Grizel’s couch, folded her hands on her knee, and asked a level question:
“I wanted to know. Have you told your husband everything that happened?”
“Everything about the accident itself. Nothing more, Teresa.”
For a moment the blue eyes lightened with gratitude.
“I thought you wouldn’t. But most women would. Thank you. I’d rather no one was told.”
“No one shall hear anything from me. It is not my business. I shall forget it, Teresa!”
The girl shook her head.
“You can’t do that. I don’t think I want you to forget. It’s a help to have someone who understands. Mrs Beverley—do you think he meant it?”
Grizel sat upright on the sofa, her small hands locked on her knee, and for a long silent minute blue eyes and hazel met in a steady gaze. There were no secrets between the two women at the end of that minute.
“Yes, Teresa,” said Grizel unsteadily. “I think he did.”