“As for the house,” he said, “I was not master of myself when I said those words that Grace told you of; and I entreat you to let me repair the damage.”
“No, no,” she said, “Anthony has given orders; that will all be done.”
“But what can I do then?” he cried passionately; “if you but knew my sorrow—and—and—more than that, my——”
Isabel had raised her grave eyes and was looking him full in the face now; and he stopped abashed.
“How is Grace, and Mercy?” she asked in perfectly even tones.
“Oh! Isabel——” he began; and again she looked at him, and then went to the door.
“I hear Mr. Buxton,” she said; and steps came along through the hall; she opened the door as he came up. Mr. Buxton stopped abruptly, and the two men drew themselves up and seemed to stiffen, ever so slightly. A shade of aggressive contempt came on Hubert’s keen brown face that towered up so near the low oak ceiling; while Mr. Buxton’s eyelids just drooped, and his features seemed to sharpen. There was an unpleasant silence: Isabel broke it.
“You remember Master Hubert Maxwell?” she said almost entreatingly. He smiled kindly at her, but his face hardened again as he turned once more to Hubert.
“I remember the gentleman perfectly,” he said, “and he no doubt knows me, and why I cannot ask him to remain and dine with us.”
Hubert smiled brutally.