These thoughts passed through my head as I ran down for the kitten. Mr. Chandos handed it to me, and turned away, for he was called to by some one at a distance. At the same moment the kitten was taken from my hands. It was by Mrs. Freeman, who had also come down.
"I hope it is not hurt, poor thing," she said, looking at it. "It seems lively enough."
"Mr. Chandos said it was not hurt, when he gave it to me."
"Oh, that's right. Had it been hurt, Mrs. Chandos would have grieved over it. She is fond of this kitten; and she has so few pleasures, poor child!"
"Who is Mrs. Chandos?" I asked, in a low tone.
"Madam?" returned Mrs. Freeman.
The tone—cold, haughty, reserved—struck me as conveying the keenest reproach for my unjustifiable curiosity; unjustifiable so far as that I had betrayed it. I faltered forth the question again—for she seemed looking at me and waiting; and it might be that she had not heard it.
"Who is Mrs. Chandos?"
"Mrs. Chandos?" was the answer. "Who should she be? She is Mrs. Chandos." And Mrs. Freeman stalked away.
That same evening at dusk, the dog Nero was taken away. A few words spoken by Hickens to his master enlightened me as to the exit.