And she sank back in her chair.
The sigh that accompanied the words seemed to him involuntary, unconscious.
"I didn't mean that--altogether," he said, after a moment.
She moved restlessly.
"Then, really, I don't know what you meant. I suppose all friendship depends on one's self."
She drew her embroidery frame towards her again, and he was left to wonder at his own audacity. "Do you know," she said, presently, her eyes apparently busy with her silks, "that I have told Lord Lackington?"
"Yes. Evelyn gave me that news. How has the old man behaved?"
"Oh, very well--most kindly. He has already formed a habit, almost, of 'dropping in' upon me at all hours. I have had to appoint him times and seasons, or there would be no work done. He sits here and raves about young Mrs. Delaray--you know he is painting her portrait, for the famous series?--and draws her profile on the backs of my letters. He recites his speeches to me; he asks my advice as to his fights with his tenants or his miners. In short, I'm adopted--I'm almost the real thing."
She smiled, and then again, as she turned over her silks, he heard her sigh--a long breath of weariness. It was strange and terrible in his ear--the contrast between this unconscious sound, drawn as it were from the oppressed heart of pain, and her languidly, smiling words.
"Has he spoken to you of the Moffatts?" he asked her, presently, not looking at her.