"How long did that gentleman stop here last night, George!" she suddenly asked of the servant who was removing the breakfast things. "Mr.-- what was the name? Brackenbury, I think."
"He stopped a good while, ma'am. I think it was between nine and ten when he left."
"What a shame! Keeping Mr. Cray all that while. I wonder he stayed with him! I wouldn't. I'd make people come to me in business hours, if I were Mark."
She sat on, after the departure of the breakfast things, leaning back in an easy chair and turning carelessly the leaves of a new novel, those that would open, for she did not exert herself to cut them. A very listless mood was she in that morning, tired and out of sorts. By and by her maid came in to ask about some alteration that was to be made in a dress, and Caroline told her to bring the dress to her.
That a little aroused her. It was a beautiful evening dress of flowered silk, and she stood over the table where the maid laid it consulting with her about some change in the colour of the trimmings. Becoming absorbed in this, she scarcely noticed that some one had come into the hall and opened the door of the room. Some expression in the maid's countenance as she looked up caught her attention, and she turned quickly round.
Mark was there, glancing into the room. Mark with a white aspect and a scared dreamy look on his face. Before Caroline had time to question, in fact almost before she looked, he was gone and had closed the door again. So quiet had been the movement, so transient the vision, that Caroline spoke in her surprise.
"Was not that your master?"
"Yes, ma'am. Something was the matter, I think. He looked ill."
"I will go and see. Mind, Long, I'll decide upon pink. It is the prettiest colour."
"Very well, ma'am. As you please, of course. I only think pink won't go so well with the dress as violet."