“Where is your mistress?” the girl asked excitedly of the first servant she met at Lupton House.
“In her room, madam,” the man replied, and to Ruth's room went Diana breathlessly, leaving Lady Horton gaping after her and understanding nothing.
Ruth, who was seated pensive by her window, rose on Diana's impetuous entrance, and in the deepening twilight she looked almost ghostly in her gown of shimmering white satin, sewn with pearls about the neck of the low-cut bodice.
“Diana!” she cried. “You startled me.”
“Not so much as I am yet to do,” answered Diana, breathing excitement. She threw back the wimple from her head, and pulling away her cloak, tossed it on to the bed. “Mr. Wilding is in Bridgwater,” she announced.
There was a faint rustle from the stiff satin of Ruth's gown. “Then...” her voice shook slightly. “Then... he is not dead,” she said, more because she felt that she must say something than because her words fitted the occasion.
“Not yet,” said Diana grimly.
“Not yet?”
“He sups to-night at Mr. Newlington's,” Miss Horton exclaimed in a voice pregnant with meaning.
“Ah!” It was a cry from Ruth, sharp as if she had been stabbed. She sank back to her seat by the window, smitten down by this sudden news.