During the remainder of her visit she chatted to him cheerfully about a book he had lent her; but just before she took her leave she unfortunately broached the subject of her new friend. At the mention of her name Mr. Gaythorne started and changed color.
"Greta Williams," he observed, with a sharp, almost displeased intonation in his voice. "That is not a common name. And she lives in Brunswick Place?"
"Yes; they have been living there for some years, but before that they were in the country." But to her surprise Mr. Gaythorne interrupted her impatiently.
"Yes, yes, you said that before; go on with what you were telling me about her father. He is a dipsomaniac, you say." And then Olivia proceeded with her story.
"Is it not sad for the poor girl?" she observed when she had finished, but Mr. Gaythorne made no reply. He was sitting in a stooping attitude over the fire and seemed lost in thought.
His first remark took Olivia by surprise. "Have you ever mentioned my name to Miss Williams?" he asked, with one of his keen searching looks. "You are very frank, Mrs. Luttrell. I daresay you have dropped a word or two about me."
But Olivia shook her head.
"I am quite sure that I have not done so. I have only seen Miss Williams four or five times, and we have only talked about her own troubles and—oh yes, a little about Mr. Barton. No, I am certain that your name has never been mentioned."
"That is well," he returned, slowly. "Perhaps you will be good enough for the future to leave me out of your conversations when you go to Brunswick Place.
"The fact is, Mrs. Luttrell," he went on, slowly, "the Williamses were old neighbours of ours. And Greta and my Olive were dear friends, but they left the neighbourhood long before we did. I never liked Mr. Williams; he had a knack of quarrelling with all his friends, and we soon came to loggerheads. He made himself obnoxious in many ways, and I declared I would never enter his house again. I am sorry to hear we are such close neighbours."