He was a tall man, and was dressed somewhat strangely. A long foreign-looking cloak and a broad-brimmed felt hat, which he had not yet removed, gave him the look of an artist; but, except that he had a beard and moustache, and wore blue spectacles, she could not gain the slightest clue to his features. But his voice,—it pleased Phillis’s sensitive ear more every moment; it was pleasant,—rather foreign, too,—and had a sad ring in it.
He leaned against the wall opposite to her, and looked out thoughtfully at the driving rain.
“I think I saw you coming out from the White House,” he observed presently. “Are you a friend of Mrs. Cheyne? I hope,” hesitating a little, “that she is very well.”
“Do you know her?” asked Phillis, in surprise.
“That is a very Irish way of answering my question; but you shall have your turn first. Yes; I used to know her many years ago, and Herbert Cheyne, too.” 209
“Her poor husband! Oh! and did you like him?” rather breathlessly.
“Pretty fairly,” was the indifferent reply. “People used to call him a pleasant fellow, but I never thought much of him myself,—not but what he was more sinned against than sinning, poor devil. Anyhow, he paid dearly enough for his faults.”
“Yes, indeed; and one must always speak leniently of the dead.”
“Ah, that is what they say,—that he is dead. I suppose his widow put on mourning, and made lamentation. She is well, you say, and cheerful?”
“Oh, no! neither the one nor the other. I am not her friend; I only know her just little; but she strikes me as very sad. She has lost her children, and––”