After chatting a few moments, he brought Editha to madam and introduced her.
She studied the sweet face for a moment, then her faultlessly gloved hand closed over Editha’s fingers in a strong yet tender clasp of sympathy and friendliness.
She had read in the pale, sorrow-lined face a grief kindred to what she, too, had suffered in the past.
“You are not well, my dear,” she said, with a wistful look into the sad blue eyes, still keeping her hand closely clasped in hers.
“Miss Dalton has not been well, but we hope she is on the gain a little now. Have you seen the new piece of statuary that was brought in yesterday?” Mr. Tressalia asked, to draw her attention from Editha.
She was quite sensitive about having her illness remarked by strangers, and the color was now creeping with painful heat into her cheeks.
Madam took the hint at once, and turned to look at the new statue, and for a while kept up a spirited conversation with Mr. Tressalia about the objects of general interest in Newport.
But ever and anon her eyes sought the fair face bending with curious interest over the manuscripts with a look of pity and tenderness that told she was deeply interested in the frail-looking stranger.
“Who is she? Some one in whom you are particularly interested?” she asked, with the privilege of an old friend, as she drew Paul still farther away, ostensibly to look at some pictures.
He started, and his noble face was clouded with pain as he answered: