In the afternoon I established myself in my old seat in the arm-chair, determined to court repose. If I slept at all, it could only have been a doze which lasted a few minutes. And then, as before, a loud double knock made me start up, half-bewildered; and once again William Greystock was my visitor.
His first glance at me must have shown him the evident traces of misery and illness; my first glance at him revealed a change in his face which startled and astonished me.
His olive skin was glowing, and there was such an intense light in his dark eyes that I almost shrank from their gaze. But when he spoke, his voice was curiously gentle and calm.
"I have come to see how you are, Mrs. Hepburne," he began, as I rose, tottering, from my seat. "No better than I expected to find you, I fear?"
"I was scarcely strong enough to go to Richmond," I said, making a wretched attempt to be at ease.
MY FIRST GLANCE REVEALED A CHANGE IN HIS FACE WHICH STARTLED ME.
"The whole thing was a miserable mistake on my part," he said, sadly.
"I don't know that it was a mistake, Mr. Greystock," I answered, still trying to talk in a commonplace way. "Ronald thought it a very successful picnic. I am rapidly becoming a morose invalid, you know, and I can't enjoy myself as others can. For the future I must be content to be a home-bird."
"A home-bird whose song has ceased," he said, in his deep, mournful voice. "But there is still one power left to you."