She was roused by Betty's voice:
"Mr. Raeburn! will you tell me who people are? Mr. Leven's no more use than my fan. Just imagine—I asked him who that lady in the tiara is—and he vows he doesn't know! Why, it just seems that when you go to Oxford, you leave the wits you had before, behind! And then—of course"—Betty affected a delicate hesitation—"there's the difficulty of being quite sure that you'll ever get any new ones!—But there—look!—I'm in despair!—she's vanished—and I shall never know!"
"One moment!" said Raeburn, smiling, "and I will take you in pursuit.
She has only gone into the tea-room."
His hand touched Marcella's.
"Just a little better," he said, with a sudden change of look, in answer to Lady Winterbourne's question. "The account to-night is certainly brighter. They begged me not to come, or I should have been off some days ago. And next week, I am thankful to say, they will be home."
Why should she be standing there, so inhumanly still and silent?—Marcella asked herself. Why not take courage again—join in—talk—show sympathy? But the words died on her lips. After to-night—thank heaven!—she need hardly see him again.
He asked after herself as usual. Then, just as he was turning away with
Betty, he came back to her, unexpectedly.
"I should like to tell you about Hallin," he said gently. "His sister writes to me that she is happier about him, and that she hopes to be able to keep him away another fortnight. They are at Keswick."
For an instant there was pleasure in the implication of common ground, a common interest—here if no-where else. Then the pleasure was lost in the smart of her own strange lack of self-government as she made a rather stupid and awkward reply.
Raeburn's eyes rested on her for a moment. There was in them a flash of involuntary expression, which she did not notice—for she had turned away—which no one saw—except Betty. Then the child followed him to the tea-room, a little pale and pensive.