The words were kind, but something in his tone pained her. Something interposed between them. It had seemed so natural to turn to him for sympathy, but she suddenly felt shy. What was her distress to him?
"Forgive me," she murmured. "I longed to pour out my heart to some one. I have no one to go to, and I suffer so! You cannot imagine what this last quarter of an hour has been to me. My poor mother's marriage was a tragedy; my grandmother was right. No one who did not live with her can dream of all that she suffered for years. Her last request to me when she was dying was that I would not let him come to her. And now that wretch is boasting to strangers--oh, I cannot endure it! Can you understand what it all is to me? Can you understand?"
The question was superfluous. She knew very well that he understood, but she repeated the words mechanically again and again. Why did he sit there so straight and silent? She was pouring out her soul to him, revealing to him all that was most sacred, and he had not one word of sympathy for her. A kind of anger took possession of her, and, with all the self-control which she could summon up, she said, more calmly, "I know I have no right to burden you with my misery----"
"Countess Erika!" he exclaimed, with a sudden unconscious movement of his hand, which chanced to strike the case containing Lord Langley's photograph. It fell on the floor; Goswyn picked it up and tossed it contemptuously upon the table, while his face grew hard and stern.
He was the first to break the silence that followed. "Is this Strachinsky staying in Bayreuth?"
"Yes. I met him to-day."
"Do you know his address?"
"No. Why do you ask?"
"For the simplest reason in the world: I wish to procure your mother's letters for you."
"The letters!" she exclaimed. "Oh, if that were possible! But upon what pretext could you demand them of him? they belong to him; we have no right to them."