She made a movement as if to depart, but Mr. Greyne begged her to remain. In his loneliness the sight even of a Levantine whom he knew solaced his yearning heart. He felt quite friendly towards this poor, unhappy girl, for whom, perhaps, such a shock was preparing upon the distant shore.
“Better stay!” he said. “The air will do you good.”
“Ah, if I die, what matter? Unless mamma lives there is no one in the world who cares for me, for whom I care.”
“There—there is Mrs. Greyne,” said her husband. “And then St. Paul’s—remember St. Paul’s.”
“Ah ce charmant St. Paul’s! Shall I ever see him more?”
She looked at Mr. Greyne, and suddenly—he knew not why—Mr. Greyne remembered the incident of the diary, and blushed.
“Monsieur has fever!”
Mr. Greyne shook his head. The Levantine eyed him curiously.
“Monsieur wishes to say something to me, and does not like to speak.”
Mr. Greyne made an effort. Now that he was with this gentle lady, with her white face, her weeping eyes, her plain black dress, the mere suspicion that she could have opened a locked drawer with a secret key, and filched therefrom a private record, seemed to him unpardonable. Yet, for a brief instant, it had occurred to him, and Mrs. Greyne had seriously held it. He looked at Mademoiselle Verbena, and a sudden impulse to tell her the truth overcame him.