“It must be all right,” she told herself. Only—once or twice—an almost imperceptible hesitation in the young man’s manner struck her, or her imagination, with a faint shadow of misgiving, and occasionally an unspoken inquiry in Evelyn’s eyes startled her a little.
Why did he not speak definitely?
Though even as she thought this, she dismissed the question.
“I should have no misgiving,” she said; “I have no reason for it. It is only that miserable secret in the background! If he would but give me a chance of telling him about it; it would be so delightful to find, as I know I should, how fanciful and exaggerated I have been in fearing that a man like him would really be changed to me because of it.”
The opportunity was to come, as such things often do, when she was least expecting it. Two or three days before Easter, Michael Gresham made his appearance at Merle. His cousin welcomed him cordially, though, truth to tell, he had almost forgotten this arranged-for visit.
“So you’re all alone,” said Michael at breakfast the first morning—he had travelled down by a night train—“I am all the better pleased, though rather surprised. You are not generally so contented with your own society.”
Bernard Gresham did not at once reply. He stooped to pat Solomon, who, needless to say, was in attendance; an unusual piece of amiability which did not escape Michael’s attention, any more than the slightly heightened colour on his cousin’s face, as he turned to reply.
“Well,” he began, “I did mean to ask two or three people down, but it rather went out of my head. I’ve only been here for a week, and I’ve been pretty busy looking after the Headforts. They are at Palden Grange; did you know? It’s very rough, of course. They are getting it into order, so it was only common humanity to ask them to come over here as much as they liked.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Michael. “Duke Headfort and his wife, of course, you mean?”
“Ye-es,” Bernard resumed, “and—her sister. She is helping her.”