He looked at her passionately; a distress rising in his eyes, which he could not hide. Was it her silence—the absence of any cheering, approving sound from her?
She lifted her hand, and let it drop.
"Mainstairs!" she said. It was just breathed—a cry of pain.
"Yes—Mainstairs! I know—let us tackle Mainstairs. Mainstairs is a horror—a tragedy. If I had been allowed, I should have set the whole thing right a couple of months ago; I should have re-housed some of the people, closed some of the cottages, repaired others. Mr. Melrose stopped everything. There again—what good could I do by throwing up? I had plenty of humdrum work elsewhere that was not being interfered with—work that will tell in the long run. I left Mainstairs to Melrose; the responsibility was his, not mine. I went on with what I was doing. He and the police—thank heaven!—cleared the place."
"And in the clearing, Mr. Melrose, they say, never lifted a finger to help—did not even give money," said Lydia in the same low, restrained voice, as she looked away from her guest into the fire. "And one sits thinking—of all the dead—that might have been saved!"
His frowning distress was evident.
"Do I not feel it as much as any one?" he said, with emotion. "I was helpless!"
There was silence. Then Lydia turned sharply toward him.
"Mr. Faversham! Is it true that Mr. Melrose has made you his heir?"
His face changed.