“Surely,” but Wallace was slow in reseating himself.
“Then avoid Ben Potter.” Mrs. Parsons picked up her neglected embroidery, and did not trouble to glance at her guest.
Wallace’s attempt at a laugh was something of a failure. “I saw Potter an hour ago at the club,” he volunteered. “He told me that he and his wife were leaving for New York to-night.”
“Indeed.” Mrs. Parsons held her needle nearer the light and threaded it with deft fingers. “Is Kitty Baird going with them?”
“I believe not.” Wallace moved a trifle and shaded his face with his hand. “I’ve just come from ‘Rose Hill.’”
“And how is Kitty? Did you see her?” Mrs. Parsons spoke with such rapidity that her questions ran together.
“No.” Wallace compressed his lips. “She sent down word that she begged to be excused.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Parsons lowered her embroidery and regarded her companion. He looked wretchedly ill, and the haggard lines were deeper than ever. For a man of his height and breadth of shoulder, he seemed to have shrunken, for his clothes appeared to hang upon him. Dwelling on his ill-health would not tend to lessen Wallace’s nervous condition, and Mrs. Parsons omitted personalities. “Were you at the Baird inquest?” she inquired.
“Yes, that is, I got there late—” stumbling somewhat in his speech. “Why don’t you go and see Kitty, Cecelia? That house of hers is sort of ghastly—”