“He took it so,” said Lettice, a little nettled.
“And I—I used to think I would feel it so too, but I don’t seem to mind now. I would mind nothing if we could find him.”
“Have you any trace? Can you tell me all the particulars?”
“Yes,” said Lettice, feeling in her pocket for Arthur’s letter. But the stranger interrupted her.
“Now that you have told me so much, you will not refuse to let me tell you something—make some explanations to you. You will let me send away your cab, and take you home to my wife? I think I can promise to help you, but you must give me all particulars, and in a circumstantial manner. That will take time. But first, Lettice, it is not fair to you not to tell you who I am. I am not only Godfrey Auriol’s friend; I am—do not be startled, my child—I am your uncle, Ingram Morison.”
He turned away after saying these words. He would not look at her face, half out of pity for her, half out of an almost childish terror of the deep disappointment to himself, should he see its expression turn into hard resentment. He walked up and down in the cold for a moment or two, then hearing, or fancying he heard, a low, half-stifled call—to his ears it took the sound of the words he had so often longed to hear, “Uncle Ingram”—he turned back again. She was looking out of the brougham window, the glass was down, her face was paler than one could almost believe it possible for a young, healthy face to be, her lips were quivering, there was a look of suffering and humiliation almost, but there was no hardness or resentment.
“Lettice,” he said gently. “May I send away your cab?”
There was great tact in the tone and manner of the simple question. Lettice’s eyes filled with tears. She did not speak, but she bent her head in assent.