And she gently pushed the girl from her, putting up her pale lips to be kissed, and asking that the little parlour-maid should be sent to help her undress.
Mary went unwillingly. She gave Miss Puttenham's message to the maid, and when the girl had gone up to her mistress she lingered a moment at the foot of the stairs, her hands lightly clasped on her breast, as though to quiet the stir within.
* * * * *
Meynell, expecting to see the lady of the house, could not restrain the start of surprise and joy with which he turned toward the incomer. He took her hand in his—pressing it involuntarily. But it slipped away, and Mary explained with her soft composure why she was there alone—that Miss Puttenham was suffering from a succession of bad nights and was keeping her room—that she sent word the Rector must please rest a little before going home, and allow Mary to give him tea.
Meynell sank obediently into a chair by the open window, and Mary ministered to him. The lines of his strong worn face relaxed. His look returned to her again and again, wistfully, involuntarily; yet not so as to cause her embarrassment.
She was dressed in some thin gray stuff that singularly became her; and with the gray dress she wore a collar or ruffle of soft white that gave it a slight ascetic touch. But the tumbling red-gold of the hair, the frank dignity of expression, belonged to no mere cloistered maid.
Meynell heard the news of Miss Puttenham's collapse with a sigh—checked at birth. He asked few questions about it; so Mary reflected afterward. He would come in again on the morrow, he said, to inquire for her. Then, with some abruptness, he asked whether Hester had been much seen at the cottage during the preceding week.
Mary reported that she had been in and out as usual, and seemed reconciled to the prospect of Paris.
"Are you—is Miss Puttenham sure that she hasn't still been meeting that man?"
Mary turned a startled look upon him.