Leonore was raising a spoon to her mouth, but suddenly her hand trembled a little. After a glance at her father and mother, she pushed her tea-cup into the centre of the table as if she had finished it, though it had just been poured. Then she turned and began to talk and laugh with the caller.
But the moment the visitor was out of the room, Leonore said:
“What is it, papa?”
Watts was standing by the fire. He hesitated. Then he groaned. Then he went to the door. “Ask your mother,” he said, and went out of the room.
“Mamma?” said Leonore.
“Don’t excite yourself, dear,” said her mother. “I’ll tell you to-morrow.”
Leonore was on her feet. “No,” she said huskily, “tell me now.”
“Wait till we’ve had dinner.”
“Mamma,” cried Leonore, appealingly, “don’t you see that—that—that I suffer more by not knowing it? Tell me.”
“Oh, Leonore,” cried her mother, “don’t look that way. I’ll tell you; but don’t look that way!”