When they came nearer Sir Albert was conscious of a great and overwhelming disappointment. He must have dreamed of the expression in the girl's face, even the colour of her eyes. This face was like and yet unlike, and the cold steel-blue eyes, and the little self-satisfied expression, repelled him and made his proffered thanks an effort, all the time hating himself for being so ungrateful.
He apologised to Mrs. Dorriman for having ventured to detain her, but he was so anxious to express to Miss Rivers, Miss Grace Rivers, all he felt.
"Oh! I had nothing to do with it. It was my sister, it was Margaret," Grace said hurriedly.
"Yes," said Mrs. Dorriman, "poor Margaret came home quite ill from the fright and shock."
"Ill—I am so grieved," began Sir Albert.
"She is all right now," said Grace, quickly. "After all she was not able to help you."
"You do not know how she helped me," said Sir Albert, quietly. "But for her courage in staying and bathing my face—even moving me—I might have died. I do hope I shall have an opportunity of seeing her and expressing my thanks in person."
"Of course you shall," said Grace abruptly, impatient of the subject, one in which she played no part.
Mrs. Dorriman felt interested in the helpless figure, and the pallor which spoke of much suffering—she would fain have lingered, but Grace hurried her on.
"I am so disappointed," exclaimed the young lady, "Sir Albert is grave, and not at all good-looking, so pale and cadaverous."