Mary halted in indecision. William advanced, placed her hand within his arm, and led her, somewhat summarily, from the room.
"I am only obeying orders, Miss Ashley," said he. "They are to see you back to the drawing-room."
"If Henry can bear you with him, he might bear me."
"You know what his whims and fancies are, when he is suffering."
"Is there not a particularly good understanding between you and Henry?" she pointedly asked.
"Yes; we understand each other perfectly."
"Well, then, tell me—what is it that is the matter with him this time? I do not like to say so to mamma, because she might call me fanciful, but it appears to me that Henry's illness is more on the mind than on the body."
William made no reply.
"And yet, I cannot imagine it possible for Henry to have picked up any annoyance or grief," resumed Mary. "How can he have done so? He is not like one who goes out into the world—who has to meet with cares and cheeks. You do not speak," she added, looking at William. "Is it that you will not tell me? or do you know nothing?"
William lowered his voice. "I can only say that, should there be anything of the sort you mention, the kinder course for Henry—indeed the only course—will be, not to allow him to perceive that you suspect it. Conceal the suspicion both from him and from others. Remember his excessive sensitiveness. When he sees cause to hide his feelings, it would be almost death to him to have them scrutinized."